


Boredom+Despair=The Syringe

by charlottesweb



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, M/M, Multi, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-14
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-04-14 17:30:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 41,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4573329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charlottesweb/pseuds/charlottesweb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Boring Fall Day for Sherlock</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock looked out the window of he and John’s flat at 221bBaker Street. It was fall, time for school. “The precursor to fall,” Sherlock thought as he watched a group of school kids walking along the sidewalk. There were four boys and with just one glance, Sherlock knew each of their futures. “First book in the lead, autocratic, domineering- court judge. The second boy hovers around him trying to glean something from the boy in the lead, follower-government worker. The third boy looking off into the distance-artist, dreamer-drug addict. The fourth boy, brow furrowed, making sure the others don’t fall off the curb they are balancing on, protector-soldier-Doctor-…Friend.” Sherlock thought these thoughts and many others as the boys disappeared from view.

“Sherlock?” A voice called from behind him. Sherlock knew without looking it was John Watson.

“What is it, John?” Sherlock asked in a bored monotone voice.

“I’m going out. Do you need anything?” John asked. His voice sounded weary with a hint of worry.

“John, you know what I need. I’m bored. I need a case,” Sherlock snapped back, not caring how every harsh syllable cut through John’s defenses.

John sighed. “Fine, I’ll be back later.”

Sherlock waved him off as if he were a bothersome insect. “Whatever, I’m not interested in your mundane little chores.”

John rocked back and forth on his heels. “Sherlock, if it wasn’t for me doing little mundane chores, we’d starve to death.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’re being dramatic, John.”

John opened his mouth to say something then thought better of it. He stood still for a moment, frowning at Sherlock’s hunched over posture. Then he turned and left.

Sherlock heard him walk down the stairs, knowing each creak on each step, even before John’s foot touched it. Then bang the front door slammed. Sherlock moved in a 45 degree angle, so that he could watch John’s departure.  Just like clockwork John crossed the street at 45 degree opposite from Sherlock’s position at the window. “Two 45 degree angles= a 90 degree angle. The 10 percent must be the break-even point in the middle,” Sherlock thought as he watched John disappear from sight.

Downstairs Sherlock could hear Mrs. Hudson nattering around below him. She was singing some sort of tune. “God, the woman has no sense of pitch,” Sherlock thought as he made his way to the couch. He hadn’t been dressed in two days. Sherlock curled up in a ball trying to evade the chill and the suffocating emptiness of the room around him. It was no use. “The black mood has won again,” Sherlock thought as his palms began to itch.

Sherlock then rolled over and stood up. It was time to visit the room at the top of the stairs. It was a dark room. A room that held secrets, a room that caressed Sherlock’s mind. A room where Sherlock could calm the internal dialogue that made his thoughts race like a locomotive. It was a room where he could rest. It was a room where Sherlock banished boredom and fear. Before he knew it Sherlock was at the top of the stairs. “I’m almost there,” he thought. Then Sherlock opened the door. The smell of mold and dry rot assailed his nostrils. Sherlock ignored it as he crawled over to the fireplace and removed a small red leather Moroccan case.

“You beckon to me,” Sherlock whispered in his low dulcet toned voice. He then opened the case with trembling hands. There it was the syringe. Sherlock licked his lips in anticipation as he tied off his arm with a rubber strap. Then he filled the syringe drawing in shaky breaths as he did so. Ignoring the scars on his arm Sherlock found what he was looking for-a vein. Then like Maleficent whispering into Sleeping Beauty’s ear, Sherlock heard his own destructive entity whisper. “Sherlock, plunge the needle in.”

A tear rolled down Sherlock’s cheek as he gave in to his dark side. It no longer hurt to puncture his vein, but Sherlock hissed as the liquid burned through him. One minute Sherlock’s neck and back muscles were as tight as a drum, the next they were fluid, relaxed-free. “I can now relax, for the boredom cannot harm me now,” Sherlock thought as he curled up on the floor and slept.


	2. How to Deduce John?

“Someone’s hand is touching my wrist,” Sherlock thinks. “Who is it? I can’t open my eyes, so I will deduce. The grip is firm, but not painful. The fingers soft but not too soft.  I know who it is, it’s John…John Watson. I want to say something that will cut him to the quick, but I must be in a semi-consciousness state.” I will let mind wander until I fade into nothingness.

“There is someone in my face. I can hear his heart beating, so I must be in his arms. The smell is a familiar one-it’s John.  I feel him lowering me to the floor, he tilts my head back, he puts his lips on mine. It’s not a kiss. He’s attempting to resuscitate me. I taste his breath. It’s flavor is coffee, mint toothpaste, and milk-it’s John. There’s something I want to do. There is something I want to say. I can’t. My mind and motor skills have been cut short. This is what abuse does. It cuts things short-kills them. I am fading again. Good-bye, John. You sound so scared. The thought of my death scares you. Poor John, for it is the thought of life that scares me. A life devoid of lust, love, consummation, a life full of loneliness, and boredom-my life.  I see nothing, no bright light, no angels, no Redbeard-nothing.”

“That noise, what is it? Jesus, it’s deafening. I should know it. I do know it, don’t I? Ah, yes it is a siren, an ambulance. Good show, John, your resuscitation attempts must have been successful. I’m cold. John, I’m so cold. But you can’t hear me can you?”

“I hear the panic in your voice, John as you order the medical personal to put another blanket on me. Dearest John, maybe you can hear me.”

“I must have lost my way again, for I am being wheeled into the emergency room. Shouts, panic, life or death?  John is fighting hard to save me. He won’t give up. Though Mycroft has not said a word, I know he is there for I can smell his retched tobacco. It clings to his clothes like a leach. The room must be full of people, highly skilled personal trying to save me. Though it is crowded I know exactly where John stands- a 45 degree angle to my right. I must try for him. My body shudders. Woops, I have definitely overdosed. John, I will try for you I will. With supreme effort that would have killed a man of lesser intellect, I open my eyes. There you are, John. I can see you now. Your face is pale; your eyes are dark with anger and grief. If I survive this you are going to give me hell. I want to surprise you. I want to show off my mental prowess for you, but the method escapes me. Your hand is next to mine. The blonde hairs are slick and smooth as they lay flat on the skin of your arm.

I shake and grimace, but I still manage to hook my index finger around yours. My fingers are limber from my violin practice. Sweat runs down my face as I pull your hand towards my face. As far as I am concerned, we are the only two in the room. Closer, closer, I take your finger and place it in my mouth. I can taste the liniment you put on your nail beds to keep from biting them. I can taste the antibacterial soap you washed with. I taste something else, something the soap missed. It stinks. It’s sour. It’s vomit. Sorry John I must have thrown up on you.

You are looking at me now, staring. John your thoughts elude me. I run my tongue around the tip of your finger. Am I teasing you? If I were a man of passion, instead of a man of letters my stomach would churn as my useless appendage stood at attention. My heart drops like a stone in my chest. You think I’ve lost my senses. I run my tongue along your nail beds, treasuring each hang nail. If this is my last contact with you I must make it count. I must make it last. A tear runs down my face, willing you to go Doctor Kevorkian on my ass. The inside of your finger traces the ridges on the roof of my mouth. I watch your face. Your bottom lip trembles. Your eyes dilate, then flutter, then they roll back in your head as you faint. John? I hear you mumbling as a nurse helps you up.

Why did you faint? If I knew the human heart as well as I know the human mind I would know. Not knowing is almost as hard as being bored. I’m tired. The mysteries of John Watson’s heart will have to be deduced at another time.”

 


	3. We Dare no Deduce

“I am out of the IC unit. I can tell because there aren’t as many beeping gadgets. Without opening my eyes I know John and Mycroft are there. I keep my eyes shut to see what I can hear-nothing. I’m bored. As I open my eyes I look to my right, 45 degree angle, John is there. I try to raise my hand to beckon to him. I can’t. I am handcuffed to the bed.  I pull at the cuff like an animal caught in a trap. John, what is happening?”

John looks over at Mycroft, “Mycroft, are the cuffs really necessary?”

Mycroft levels his gaze at John. “He’s going to rehab. We can’t trust him. I thought we agreed on this John.”

John stands in front of my bed, his stance that of a soldier protecting a fellow soldier. He then turns to me. “Sherlock, it’s for your own good,” he says as he lays a gentle hand on my shoulder.

I attack him with my full arsenal. I pull at the cuff. “You think this is good for me? What do you know? You’ve become just like him,” I say as I point to Mycroft.

“Shhhherlock, you died on me several times. Not just once several times,” John stutters as he looks down.

“Dearest John I want to take your hand. I don’t. I just pout. You place your hand over the cuff as if to protect me from the cold metal. I look up at you….John.  How can you not know? How can you not know how I feel about you? How do I feel about you? Do I love you as a friend? Do I love you as a brother? Do I love as a lover? I can’t imagine what it would be like to kiss you. I can’t. I can’t imagine what it would be like to have you…to have you make love to me…I can’t. I want you to read my mind. I want you to ravage my soul, like a pirate-like a pirate-dearest…John. Your brow is furrowed, your lips pursed. You are just as lost as I.

“Sherlock, everything is going to be okay. I will be with you every step of the way,” John says as he fingers my boney wrist.

“I want to lean into you, but I don’t. Instead I rattle my handcuff, making it slide back and forth with such force that you beg me to stop.”

“Sherlock, you’re going to break your wrist. Stop, please, now,” John begs.

“I get off on your begging. I want you to suffer for my lack of courage. John…You run from the room. A short while later you come back with a nurse. She injects something into my line. Lights out.”

“I wake up later. I’m nauseous. God, my stomach hurts. Though I try to control myself, I can’t. I vomit over everything.  You and the nurse come running in. She starts to clean me up, but you brush her hand away and do it yourself. Your hands are gentle as you slip off my gown. Until I am released you have to let the dirty gown fall to the side. It looks like a broken wing. You strip my blankets off the bed. The sour smell doesn’t make you gag. Your gentle hands wash me. Like a savior you make me clean. I shiver wondering if I will become aroused as your hands wipe the vomit from my stomach. As you clean my navel I begin to shake. You jump into action, you read my vitals, and then you quickly slip a hospital gown on me. Then you leave, but you come back soon and wrap me in a cocoon of warm heated blankets. You then look into my eyes. I want to say something profound, but I don’t. Tears stream down my face as you adjust my pillow. John you are my…angel. Shortly, Mycroft comes in, he undoes the handcuff and my useless soiled gown flutters to the ground-like a piece of paper it floats to the floor. You and I watch its descent. Mycroft watches me watching you. I don’t care, he can just sod off. I look over at him. I expect to see his brotherly sneer, but I don’t. His eyes are large-frightened. I am more confused than ever, so I turn my back on you both.  John, I can feel your arms around me, tucking me in. Then you do something unexpected, you hug me.”

“Sherlock, go to sleep. I’ve got your back,” you whisper. Your soft words tickle the inside of my ear.

“I want to say something. What…WHAT? Oh, John we are both blind. We see but we do not deduce. We dare not deduce. I then rest my head against your arm. As I fall asleep I hear you and Mycroft auguring about my treatment. I smile for you are with me-John.”


	4. Wings of Wax

It is time to check out of the hospital. John is by my side, wheeling me out to the parking lot. Mycroft is waiting in the limo. Suddenly, I feel afraid. John, you can see it in my face. Your lips are pursed. You are as upset as I. I remember the look on your face when you first caught me shooting up in the attic, the blue light bulb casting a ghostly glow around the room. I always need blue light to find a vein. Your face was stricken just like it is now.

You help me in the limo, wincing when you feel the bones under my shirt. I slide into the seat. I know better than to try and escape, Mycroft has activated the child locks on the doors. They slam down like a prison door, I am trapped. The drive is a short one. The limo stops in front of a modern looking building. They have tried to disguise its purpose with landscaping, but I know better. It is a rehab center. Though I try to remain calm you dear John can see the panic in my eyes. “John, help me.”

The limo stops and Mycroft opens the door. Like a mother bear protecting her cub you step in front of me.

  I hear you shout. “Mycroft, this isn’t good for him. I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want him locked up.”

Mycroft sighs, “John, we both agreed that this is what is best for Sherlock.”

You shout again, the veins are showing thru the thin skin of your neck, they are so beautiful so blue. Then you threaten Mycroft as you pull a gun on him. John-I am so impressed. Mycroft stops. He could have you killed, but he knows it will destroy me. He orders us both in the limo. Once we are in the limo I look over at you and smirk. You look back at me; your brows are furrowed from anger and anxiety. Dearest John, I have stressed you out, yet again.

The limo arrives at Mycroft’s house. You and he argue for a few moments and then you both reach an agreement. You help me out of the limo, your hands are warm on my cold skeletal frame. I love you dearest, John.  I am not sure in what context; I just know that I do.

We are escorted to Mycroft’s panic room.  After getting a list of supplies from you on what it will take to assist in my toxic clean-up, Mycroft locks us in. The room is spacious, industrial looking, cold, it is you-Mycroft.  There is only one bed. You lead me to it and I collapse in a heap. God, I feel so tired so nauseous. John, you know for you are already nuking a cup of chamomile tea for me. You start to put the cup in my trembling hands. But we both know that I will drop it. You blow on it to cool the tea off, then you offer me a sip. My hands cover yours as you steady the cup.

I then close my eyes and pretend to sleep. You lay down next to me. I roll over and lay my head on your shoulder. I then drop my hand on your stomach, my long fingers feel through the opening in your shirt. I touch your bare skin. Your stomach muscles tense, but you don’t dislodge my hand. My index finger rests in your navel, as if it was always meant to be there.  What would you do if I kissed you? What would I do if you kissed me? I am an asexual person; it is all about the work for me. I have disciplined myself. If I were to allow my passion to ignite I would burn us both. I would burn the heart out of you and you would do the same to me.

The thought of you gasping in my arms is a thought I dare not linger on. I could make you fall in love with me dearest John. I really could if I tried. Then all my attention would be focused on you. If I could burn you to ashes and then raise you up like a Phoenix I would. The risk is too great. Like Icarus we would both plummet to our death-the sun too bright for us to handle. The pain of unrequited passion makes my stomach cramp up. I shake. I roll off the bed and onto the floor clutching my head in my hands. You are at my side.  

“Sherlock, Sherlock, talk to me what is it?” You ask in your sweet nasal voice.

I let you lead me back to bed. You lower me down on the mattress, like a groom easing his virgin bride to a place of vulnerability. I let my hips relax under you. John, your eyes are open wide, the pupils dilated. I deduce that you are primed. If I move my hand up and over 45 degrees I will touch you-touch you there. I move my hand upward slightly ever so slightly until I feel heat. I gasp for air. I know we are almost there-to the breakeven point. Then fear for your heart as well as mine overtakes me and I say, “For God’s sake John, I can’t breathe give me some air.”

You roll off of me; I smile because you are free. You dearest John will escape the flames-the fall. Your wings are not made of wax. You are strong. I let you soar.

 


	5. Your Touch

Sherlock’s thoughts:

The last couple of days have been pretty tough. I don’t remember them. John injects my poison of choice into me so that detoxing will go easier. He’s requested a blue light bulb from Mycroft so he can find a vein-a vein that hasn’t been destroyed. I shiver, for I deduce today is going to be difficult. Though I’m cold I take off all my clothes and wait for my fix, my fix of you and my recreational substance-my mind palace stimulation.

You come into the room, God, how I am aging you dearest John. I don’t put on a robe I just lounge on the chair. You pause for a second your eyes clinically observing my naked body as a Doctor would. Wait; hold on, John you do know exactly where to look. Your eyes roam over my body like a hungry predator, pausing to look on my pubescent tree and its fruit. A thrill of electricity runs through my body, I spasm, jiggling the fruit. You stare. You frown. You lick your lips. You then look away. I inwardly sigh with relief and disappointment; there will be no cherry picking today. I am glad I am disciplined for the thought of you tasting my forbidden fruit is enough to send me into a pre-orgasmic fit.

“Sherlock, are you going to put on a robe or something?” You ask, you beg.

I show you no mercy. I want to see you suffer a little. “No, I’m going commando,” I answer with a smirk.

“Fine,” you say turning on the blue light, “I need to find a vein.” You approach me like a zoo keeper that has been attacked by a large animal that he now has to treat. Your hands rove over my arms, tears spring up in them when you observe the track marks of my abuse. You look away, take a deep breath, then you examine my legs, there is no clear vein of entry for it seems as if the track marks have spread like an out of control wisteria vine, its tendrils reaching everywhere.

“Sherlock, I’m going to have to inject the substance into one of the veins on the top of your foot. Sherlock…it’s going to hurt,” You say as you swab the top of my foot with alcohol.

I must be sick for as much as if hurts I love the feel of you sticking a needle in me. Slow at first and then the sting as the needle penetrates my vein. I sigh in pain and pleasure.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” you say and then leave the sleeping area.

I can hear you pouring another scotch, the ice cubes hit the glass, the liquid hits your tongue and then burns its way down your throat. I wish I were the liquid, burning my way through you as you…swallow. I’m sleepy, goodnight John and then I’m out.

I wake up. Too late I am vomiting everywhere. John, you rush to my side. When I don’t stop I hear you on the phone calling in yet another prescription for me. Whoops, another drain on the system. A short while later and Mycroft is at the door handing you a bag from the drug store. His nose wrinkles as he smells the vomit. You snatch the bag out of his hands and approach me.

“Sherlock, I’ve got some medicine for your nausea. I can’t give it to you orally or in an IV, it’s a suppository.” You blush and hand me the package.

My hands are shaking so bad that it becomes apparent to both of us I need help. “Sherlock, I think I’m going to have to…”

I spare you having to say it. “Fine, just do it.” I no more than get the words out and I am vomiting yet again.

You come over and cover me with a blanket. “Sherlock, lie on your left side and put your right leg over the left, like this,” You say as you show me a picture on the drug insert.

“Wait, put on some loud music,” I say just before you put on a rubber glove. “No, wait put on Sweet Dreams by the Eurythmics; it will help me distance myself.”

You do as I request. I let the music float over me. I feel your gloved hand on my waist. “Sherlock, I’m going to put some lubricant on the…the area, it will be cold.”

I nod my head for you to proceed. Your gloved hand applies the lubricant, then I hear you unwrapping the suppository. You then speak to me softly, “Sherlock, I’m going to slip it in now. Just relax, it shouldn’t hurt.”

I try and relax as I feel you easing me open. I can’t I am as tight as a drum. But you are so clever John; you are skilled, for your fingers ply me into submission. The entrance of the small bullet suppository makes a suction sound as my body accepts it. Then just like that it’s over. You turn me over and pull the blanket up to my chin.

“Get some rest, Sherlock,” you say as you pat my shoulder.

I close my eyes, but I know I won’t sleep, for I want to record your touch in my mind palace so I can reference and enhance it any time I please. I do so with great accuracy. The tactile memory is clear, leaving me to wonder why my reference to it makes me feel lonelier than ever.

 


	6. How does it feel to be teased?

I am better, for I am getting bored. John takes such good care of me. He feeds me. He doses me with medication and he attempts to make me exercise. Poor John has not been very successful in this endeavor. It was on one such occasion that John and I found ourselves walking around the grounds of Mycroft’s Estate. John prattled on about this and that until I wanted to scream. By the time we made it back to the house I was dying for a fix. Excusing myself I went to the bathroom off of Mycroft’s workout room. I did my thing, washed up and was just about to leave when I noticed something, a bottle of pills. Curious, I read the label and laughed when I read they were tranquilizers. “Fat lot of good these have done,” I said aloud as I pocketed a few of the pills.

John waited for me outside of the door and together we made our way back to the panic room. I changed into my robe and then entered the section of the room where John sat on the couch.

“You seem in good spirits,” John said, oblivious to what I had planned for the evening.

“Yes, I am feeling better. Go get yourself a scotch and then we can discuss what cases we might undertake when we are back at Baker Street.” I said feeling a slight amount of guilt when John smiled at me. “First, though let’s get my dose out of the way.”

“Sure,” John answered. A few moments later, I had to steady myself as I felt John running his hands along my leg for a vein.

“Okay, good I found one,” John said triumphantly as prepared me for my elixir; his face glowed eerily in the blue light. A slight alcohol swab and a pin prick latter and it was over. As John went to dispose of the needle, I took a couple of pills. Then I slipped a couple in his drink. “Soon the fun will begin,” I thought.

At first things appeared normal as John droned on and on. Then he stopped yawned and leaned back on the couch. “Sherlock, I feel so strange, so light,” John said as he shook his head.

I couldn’t help it, I snickered.

John snapped his head around to look at me. “Sherlock, what have you done?”

I shrugged. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, John.”

John swayed over and bent down so we were eye to eye. “Did you drug me?”

I openly laughed by this time. “John, I’m sorry I was bored. I just slipped you a tranquilizer or two, you’ll be fine.”

“You little beast,” John said as he made a grab for my robe. I laughed as I slithered away from him. Then we were chasing each other around like a couple of kids. Finally, John got the upper hand and pinned me to the ground.

“Sherlock, you have jeopardized your rehab, not to mention exposing me to a drug reaction or God knows what else,” John chided.

I tried to keep from laughing, but all too soon I began to giggle again. John looked at me sternly and then said, “You know, Sherlock you are a real prick.”

He looked exasperated. I stared into John’s blue eyes watching the pupils as they dilated in contrast to his changing physiology. He still had me pinned and I began to feel trapped. “Get off me,” I shouted in a panic.

John held me tight between his knees. “No, I want to know why you drugged me.”

My robe fluttered open as John squeezed his jean covered legs into my side. “Why, Sherlock, why?”

“I was bored,” I whispered as John’s angry countenance stared back at me.

“Nope, no that is only part of it. You were bored and you drugged me so that you could laugh at me. So, that you could laugh at me as I totally lost it,” John shouted in anger as he held my head in a tight grip.

I looked back at him, confused. John continued to stare at me. Determined not to let him win I glared back at him. For a moment I felt as if the whole world had suddenly stopped moving as John and I held each other’s gaze.

“I’ve got your number, you little shit,” John said as he held me tighter. “You wanted a reaction from me. So, fine I will surprise you. Just be careful what you ask for, Sherlock,” John hissed as he pulled on the back of my hair until I yelped.

Then he put his lips on mine, not gentle like I always imagined, but rough and demanding. I turned my head away, acutely away of the smell of sweat and alcohol that exuded from his pores. John ignored me smashing his lips on mine, biting me until I opened for his entrance. His hard tongue rampaged through my mouth, licking swelling and entwining around mine until I felt faint.

His hand reached between my legs and that’s when he pulled away. “Nothing, you feel nothing do you? You’re just playing with me aren’t you?” John’s voice was harsh, his lips clamped shut in a tight grimace. “Well, you’re not out of the woods yet. See what you have done?” John shouted as he pushed his hardening groin to my side. Even through his jeans I could feel the heat, the moisture, the pulsating impaction of his lust. Then without another word, he began to thrust his pelvis against mine. I pushed out a puff of air every time he slammed into me. He worked the strictures in my libido until everything was free flowing.  

I am surprised. For it has been a long sexually deprived drought. My body snaps to attention so quickly that my muscles seized as I arched my lower back towards him. Then John did the unthinkable and pushed me away. Moisture from his forehead drips down, rolling away from my eye like a tear. “Sherlock, how could you have done this to me….just…just how could you?” John stuttered. Then he stood up and looked down at me, fixating on the tightness of my boxers. By this time his eyes are filled with tears. “Sherlock, you have lost your own game.”

I looked at him through glazed, lustful eyes. “What…” I gasp.

John frowned, sucked in his lower lip and then turned to leave. He then looked back at me and said, “How does it feel to be teased, Sherlock?”

 

 


	7. 300 Grams

I open my eyes. Ugh, it’s morning. I look beside me. The bed is empty. I stumble out of the bedroom. Without anyone telling me, I know John is gone. An unexplained panic overcomes me. I run out the front door, heedless that I am in my robe. Barefoot I run towards the sound of running water. There is a small stream. I make my way down the embankment, slipping and sliding through algae covered reeds. Plop, I fall down into a pile of muck. I am covered in mud and green slim. I don’t even attempt to get up. I just lie there. I want to cry, but I can’t. So, I just curl up, making no attempt to right myself.

I must have fallen asleep for I open my eyes. I hear someone calling my name.

“Sherlock, SHERLOCK,” it’s John’s voice.

I don’t move. I hear him splashing through the muck to rescue me. Without a thought about his own comfort, John throws himself beside me. He rolls me over. “Sherlock, Sherlock, please be alright.”

I open my eyes. I lay in his arms. The look on his face is enough to burn the heart out of the most stalwart individual.  John has left himself open. For it is obvious that my death would destroy him. His eyes are swollen. He has been crying on and off for about 6 hours. For that is how long it would take for the skin under his eyes to appear, red and puffy. John extends his hand towards me and pulls me out of the primeval looking ooze.

There is a suction noise as my body breaks free of the mud. John steadies me as my legs adjust to walking. Like soldiers escaping from a horrific battle, we trudge back to the house. Once inside John leads me to the bathroom.

“Get, those clothes off. You’ll be lucky if you don’t get pneumonia,” John snaps as my dirty robe hits the ground. Without a sound John guides me to the tub, hooks on a hose attachment and sprays me off like an errant dog that has rolled in dirt.  “Sit on the edge of the tub, while I wash your hair,” John orders.

I do as he says. Chill bumps cover my body as his hands work their way through my hair. Once I am clean he helps me out of the tub and hands me a towel. His eyes move to the marks on my neck. The marks are from his teeth scraping against my skin during his drug induced state from the previous evening. I wish that you had scarred me, John, that way the marks would be with me forever. Your eyes next travel to my right pectoral muscle where you bit into me. I long for you to touch the sensitive tips of my breasts. They begin to harden as the idea runs through my mind like an out of control forest fire. “Touch me, John, please,” I think.

I can tell you’ve noticed their hardness. For you take a deep breath and throw another towel at me. “Cover up,” you snap, your voice hard and tremulous at the same time.

I reach out to you. “John,” I whisper.

You glare at me as you say, “Sherlock, enough.”

I hang my head, for I have indeed lost this game. “John, I’m sorry,” I say.

You nod. “Fine, Sherlock I’m sorry too, for you know…” He says as he gestured towards the marks on my body.

He doesn’t know that I dread the day that they will heal and fade. “It’s okay,” I reply.

An awkward silence overtakes the room and threatens to swallow us up. I surrender to it. You do not. “Sherlock, I know you’re curious and so I forgive you. Just don’t…don’t ever do that again.”

I stare down at the bathroom tiles. “So, I was repulsive then?”

You looked shocked. “Sherlock, the torment doesn’t stop with you does it? What do you want me to say?”

We are at a bridge. I want to cross it, but I don’t know how. I hang my head in cowardice.

“Sherlock, I haven’t come to grips with what happened last night. I’ve experimented before but never…never… have I…”

I don’t know how to save you. So, as usual I say the wrong thing. “John, relax it was just for science. I was bored. It meant nothing to me. So, why should it bother you? It doesn’t bother you does it?”

The stricken look on your face tells me that I have said the wrong thing yet again.

“Fine, yes. I’m having Mycroft give me a lift to a colleague’s house. Your treatment plan is finished.” John looks at me for a second time and then looks down.

I reach out and take your arm. You turn around, your eyes are wide, scared. “Sherlock?”

“I just want to say that…that well I need to…umm.” My words tumble from my mouth like a bumbling idiot.

“Sherlock, I care for you more than you could ever know. But I don’t know how to…how to love you anymore than you do me. Let’s just leave it at that shall we?”

I nod mutely. I listen to your footsteps as they retreat away from me. Your limp is more pronounced, you must be upset-stressed. I stay in the bathroom until you leave. I then run upstairs so that I can watch the limo drive away. You get into the limo. You don’t look up. But I know you know that I am watching you. Your back tightens and you turn away from me at a 45 degree angle. Then you are gone, speeding away from me.

I stand there at the window alone. I stand there for an hour and twenty minutes, until Mycroft comes for me.

“Sherlock, come away from the window. Get dressed and quit feeling sorry for yourself, brother dear.”

“I’m not feeling sorry for myself. John has just left me when I needed him the most,” I snap at him in anger.

Mycroft laughs. “For someone who is so intelligent, you can be incredibly stupid. Sherlock, when you died in John’s arms I have never seen such devastation in an individual’s face. It would break my heart if something were to befall you, brother dear. John, on the other hand would die slowly inside. Take care dear brother; his heart is in your hands.”

“He still left,” I say as I pout.

Mycroft sighs. “He will come back to Baker Street. However, brother dear I wouldn’t take him for granted. There is only so much the human heart can take.”

“He doesn’t want me.” The words come out of my voice like a curse.

Mycroft throws back his head and laughs again. “Sherlock, though he may not say it, John wants you. But then I forget how would you know about matters of the heart?”

In that moment I hate Mycroft, for I know nothing about the human heart other than its physical attributes.  The average male heart is 300 grams.


	8. Its all about the work.

I can no longer hold my activated libido in check. It is time for me to make a visit to a quiet flat. I have given them strict instructions. My partner-prostitute is to be 169cm tall, 62 kg, and he is to have blonde hair. He will be my virtual John Watson. I prepare for battle. John’s black coat- check. A bottle of John’s aftershave lotion-check. John’s striped shirt-check. A package of condoms-check. One sex toy-check.

I arrive at the establishment on time. Everything is just as I have instructed. The room is dimly lit in order to deceive me. I take off all my clothes. I then fold them in neat piles. I slip on my long black coat. The door opens. My virtual John comes in. He has been instructed not to speak. He has been instructed not to meet my eyes. He wears John’s coat, his shirt and his aftershave.

I can smell John’s scent on him as he slips off my jacket. “John,” I whisper as his hands roam over my shivering skin. The tips of my breasts are hard. My virtual John presses his thumb in circular motions on them. It hurts, but I beg him not to stop. I feel my control slipping as he ministers to my needs.

“Now,” I say and he stops. He slips on a condom. My virtual John then slips one on me as well. I knock him face down on the bed. I slide into my virtual John. I dominate him with my pumping motions. I never tire of the feel of penetration as I bury my head in your shirt. Your scent makes the head of my reservoir full. I scream out in mental agony. “JOHN,” I scream out. Then as I become flaccid I weep. I whisper your name over and over.

Then it is time. I am rolled over on my back. Virtual John pierces my nipple. I cry out as he makes the hole bigger. Big enough to fit in a nipple ring. It is the symbol of caduceus. The wings tear at my flesh as it is worked through the small hole. I let virtual John maneuver the sex toy. “Push on the ring at the same time,” I order him. “Push it hard, John.” The pain is a little too much. You punish me. I punish you, until the sun’s rays illuminate the darkness of the room.  I roll off the bed. I then take a shower, crying out when the warm water hits my piercing.

Once dressed, I am the master detective again. Baker Street feels cold as I make my way to my chair. I nearly jump out of my skin when I hear your voice.

“Sherlock, where have you been?” You ask.

I yawn. “Out, John.”                                                               

You are not deterred. “Where? Have you been using?”

I shake my head. “No.”

“Take off your coat and roll up your sleeves.” You order.

I do so. After a brief inspection you are satisfied, until you see the bruises. Your voice is low menacing. “Sherlock take off your shirt.”

“No,” I reply.

Then we tussle a little. When your hand grazes my ring, I cry out and hit the floor. Your deft fingers soon have my shirt off. You stare at my white marred skin in horror. Your eyes fixate on the ring-the symbol of caduceus. “Sherlock, Sherlock,…” You whisper as your voice trails off.

I reach down; pick up my shirt and coat. We both stare at your black coat and stripped shirt that I let drop to the floor. As I put my coat on, the small square package of condoms falls to the floor. We both watch its descent. I make no move to pick it up. “I going to bed,” I say with a detached coldness.

You look helpless small. “Sherlock, are you alright? What’s happened?”

I glance into your eyes, and then look down. I know I don’t dare stare too long or I will be lost.  “I’m going to bed. I’ll leave you to your own deductions.”

I turn my back on you and make my way to my bedroom. Tomorrow I will have to start on the herbal mix I had Molly make up. I can still see her doe brown eyes filling with tears as I tell her what it’s for.

“Molly, the herbal mix is to assist me. It is all about the work for me. The herbs keep my libido in check. Sometimes my human body betrays me. It is at that this time that I bury it. I will not be ruled by anything but my intellect. Passion is painful, is it not Molly? Unrequited passion is like a cancer, destroying everything in its path.”  The words hurt her but I don’t care. It is all about the work.


	9. Danger Night

The herbs have been working. I seldom think of John, other than his being my assistant. Yes, that’s all John is-my assistant. The case we are working on is particularly dangerous. It involves a drug lord and a few other unsavory characters. John and I are getting ready to go under cover. Before I change into my street clothes I play Zigeunerweisen by Sarasate. John comes into the room while I am playing. He towel dries his wet hair and smiles at me.

“Sherlock, that is beautiful. I’ve never heard you play it before,” You say in wonder.

I look at you as you stand in front of me in your striped robe. I frown as I say, “You aren’t dressed yet? Hurry up John; we don’t want to miss our quarry.”

You shrug and leave the room. I could be mistaken, but it feels as if the room just got colder.

After a small interval you come downstairs and we both look at our reflection in the mirror. We each have beanies on. I am wearing a hoodie. You are wearing a ripped up military jacket. We both wear baggy jeans. I have biker boots on. You have on your boots from Afghanistan. I smile at your reflection because I cannot bear to smile at you face to face.

“Are you ready for battle, John?” I ask as I look into the mirror.

You nod and without a word we walk out into the foggy night.

I pull a scarf out of my pocket. I hide my face within its folds. Soon we are on our way to a crack house. We walk because no one will take us in a cab. We then take a bus. As we descend the steps of the bus even John shivers from the cold. We have only gone a short distance when I take your arm. “John, we are being followed.” I whisper into your ear.

We duck into an alley. “Hurry, John,” I say as I drag you along behind me. When your hand encloses around mine, I shiver, but not from the cold. We enter the den. The dregs of society lay on dirty mattresses. Their hopes and dreams destroyed by the pipe and the needle. I should be repulsed. I am not. I crave a fix. I can hear our pursuers. They are almost upon us.

I pull John down beside me on a dirty mattress. “They will soon be here,” I whisper into your ear. “Follow my lead.”

I hear voices. “I know they came in here. I can’t see a thing, bloody drug addicts.”

As luck would have it the moon peaks out of the clouds, illuminating where you and I are lying.

“Shit, what are we going to do?” You whisper in my ear.

“John now is the time. Follow my lead.” I command. I then unbutton my shirt. The moonlight glints off of my nipple ring. I pull a crack pipe out of my pocket and light it up. It’s just tobacco. I take a long drag. Then I hand it to you. My eyes never leave your face as your lips enclose around the mouth piece. You cough and sputter, then hand the pipe back to me. I snatch it from you. I want to taste your saliva that lingers on the metal. I look at you again. The men are upon us. I put the pipe down. Then I take your face between my hands and kiss you. I only withdraw my lips long enough to whisper in your ear. “John, go with me on this.”

You fall into the part with abandon. Your lips part and I slide my tongue in. I taste you. My body jerks in reaction, as we orally explore each other. I whimper, each sound accompanied by a cloud of foggy cold mist. You wrap your legs around my waist. Then you pull us to the side. You grip my lower back with one hand, while you squeeze my nipple ring with your other hand. Your fingers trace the wings, the double snakes, and then the rod. My groin tightens with desire. You are now devouring me with your mouth. I no longer care if I am the dominate one or not.

I barely hear our pursuers as they walk by and say, “Jesus, fucking disgusting bun boys.”

One danger has left us as another begins. My hand works its way into your shirt. Then below your waistband, your jeans rub against one finger, the elastic band of your underwear against the other finger. My lungs feel as if they have shrunk to the upper part of my chest. My breathing is shallow. The fourth finger of my left hand, the third finger of my violin hand, works its way down, like a third finger stretch into another position. When it reaches the rough barbed hair below your navel, I stop. My courage has left me. “I am Sherlock, the world’s greatest consulting detective,” I whisper to myself as I pull my hand away from you, away from passion-back to logic. My heart, which I have proponed not to have, breaks again.

The moon goes behind the clouds and we are once more immersed in darkness. We roll away from each other and lay there in silence. I am the first one to speak. “I don’t think our quarry is coming tonight.”

You answer. “No, perhaps he’s on to us.”

I am mad. I am ashamed. I am alone. I am bereft and so I lash out. “John you have an unerring knack for stating the obvious.  Let’s get back to Baker Street and hash this over once more.”

“Sherlock,” you whisper.

I shake my head. “John, please don’t talk. It will distract me.”

You nod. “Okay, sure Sherlock, I just want to say that well you know it’s hard for me to broach personal…things.”

I look straight ahead; my eyes fixate on the drug addict next to us. Our eyes meet in understanding. I take a deep breath. “Come on John, back to Baker Street.”

The journey home goes by in a somnambulant haze. I crave the needle. My hand shakes for it. Tonight is definitely a danger night. I smoke one cigarette after another.You say nothing. We enter Baker Street in silence. You barely mutter a “Good-night” and then you run upstairs.

Mrs. Hudson looks at me and her smile fades. “Oh, Sherlock, you look awful.”

I sigh. “I’m fine.”

She doesn’t miss a trick, the old dear. We both look to where you had been standing. “Sherlock, talk to John, tell him how you feel. I know he feels the same-he must.”

I don’t confirm or deny your words. “Mrs. Hudson, I am not sure of what you are referring to. However, if you are referring to what I think you are, John Watson would never admit to having feelings for me. I would have to be cold in my grave before he would weep.”

“Oh Sherlock,” you say as you take my hand.

I smile sadly into your eyes. “Good-night Mrs. Hudson,” I say as I kiss the top of your head.

I then make my way upstairs to my room. I take off all my clothes. I lay on the bed naked. The moon once more makes an appearance, making my skin glow in its illumination. I hear a small sound at my door. I am up in an instant. I know you are on the other side. I want to reach through the wood until it splinters. I stand there knowing that you are just out of reach. I wait, then you turn on your heel and leave. I go back to bed. It’s going to be a long night.

 

 

 


	10. What will John say?

You and I have worked on a number of cases since the drug den incident. Neither of us mentioned it again. So, far I am drug free, not nicotine free though. You and I finish up dealing with Irene Alder. A smart woman-the woman-the only woman would told me to my face exactly how I feel about you- John Hamish Watson. I am not sure if I hate her or love her for it. The fact is a moot point, for she is gone and you are more out of reach than the Queen’s jewels.

After cogitating on these reminiscences, I feel restless bored. “I need a case, John,” I shout aloud. “John, JOHN?”

You step into the room. “Sherlock, I know you’re bored. I’m doing my best to get a case for you.”

I look at you. Your hair is fluffy and your tongue is stuck just a little over your upper lip. Jesus, do you even have a clue what that does to me? In order to curb my emotions I lash out at you. “John, you’re not trying hard enough. I swear Anderson could do a better job at finding a case than you. Come on; get your head in the game.” I shout. My words have the desired effect.

You leave the room, give me the bird and call me, “An annoying dick head.”

I lean back on the couch, satisfied that I made something rise in you, even if it is only your ire, it will have to do. An incoming text takes my mind off of you. I sit up, for it sounds intriguing. The institution that I visit now and then when I need to satisfy my carnal needs has a case for me. I can’t tell you about it, so I run up to my room. Once there I rim my eyes in kohl, put on a netted shirt that shows off my nipple ring. I then sneak into your room, grab your stripped shirt and one of your jackets. I put the collar of my jacket up, pull a scarf around my face and run down the stairs. Before you or Mrs. Hudson can question me I am out into the night air-alone.

I have texted the institution. They will have a John Watson, primed for me. I walk into the lobby of my “getting off palace” and approach the front desk. Without a word I hand over your shirt and coat. Then I make my way to the proprietor’s office. I knock on the door. It is opened and I am shown into a spacious office. It is cold-sterile, all chrome and glass. The woman behind the desk smiles as she comes forward. “Well, Mr. Holmes what a pleasure. Do I take it that you are on the case?”

I lean forward. “I haven’t made up my mind yet. Tell me what you know.”

The woman pouted, tossing her lovely auburn curls over her shoulder. “Two of my workers have gone missing.”

I nod. “Two prostitutes?”

“Sherlock, I’m surprised at you. We call them sex workers,” the woman drawls.

I roll my eyes, time to get her back on course. “Annette, tell me what you know.”

She gets up and shows me to their rooms. “They took nothing with them.”

I frown as I prowl the perimeter of the room. “How do you know that they didn’t just run off?”

Annette walks over and opens a drawer. She takes out a watch and hands it to me. It’s a Rolex and it’s genuine. “There’s one just like it in the room of the other worker.” I pace looking, sniffing and then I see it. A tiny scuff mark against the wall and I smile. “I’ll take the case, under one condition. I will need to go undercover as one of your sex workers.”

Annette raises an eyebrow. “You will be recognized on sight.”

I smile at the slowness in which her mind works. “Annette, dear that’s what I’m counting on, I will be your Sherlock Holmes look alike sex worker. Is my John Watson a trust worthy ally?”

Annette nodded. “ I trust him implicitly.”

I nod. “Good, I’ll need him for research.”

Annette smirks. “Whatever you say, Mr. Holmes.” She then leads me to a room where I let my John Watson, work me over, then over then over again. A few hours later I lay in his arms smoking a cigarette as he proceeds to give me a crash course in sex worker 101. I smile. The game is on. I am going to love this case.

It is early morning when I return to Baker Street, I open the door and move to make a mad dash to my room, but Mrs. Hudson is on my trail like a blood-hound. “Sherlock, wait.”

I ignore her then stop when I hear another voice. “Brother, dear please come in the kitchen.”  I don’t want to see Mycroft, but then I hear you coming around the corner. Okay, Mycroft it is. I stroll into the kitchen. I throw your clothing on the floor and face down my brother. He opens his mouth and then shuts it. It is obvious what I’ve been up to. My eye makeup is smeared, my lips and tips of my breasts are swollen, and love bites cover various parts of my neck and chest.

Mycroft takes it all in. He deduces then his lips purse. Mrs. Hudson is the first to recover. “Sherlock, look at you. You’ve been very naughty. What will John say?”

The moment I dreaded has come on me as I hear your voice-John.

“What will I say about what?” You ask.


	11. Death by a Thousand Cuts

As I reflect back on our times together, I think back on how I always thought of you as John this or John that in a third person sense. Now I when I think of you, John, it is in first tense-you always you. Things have been strained between us ever since that night I came home smelling of sex and cigarettes. I told you it was for a case but the shock on your face tore through my heart like a knife. A knife that continues to slice a little bit of my heart away each day, until I die by a thousand cuts. I have only been under cover as a sex worker for two weeks. Nothing has turned up in regards to the case. I have performed many different sex acts with the detachment of a true sociopath. Virtual John tells me that I have a gift for this kind of work. So, it is nice to know that if I decide to quit solving cases I can become a prostitute. I chuckle as I imagine the look on your face Dear John.

You look over at me. “What’s so funny Sherlock?”

I grin and then shake my head. “Nothing, I need to get ready to go undercover,” I reply.

The expression in your eyes hardens as you open my coat to reveal my dark prostitute attire; your eyes linger on my fishnet shirt, then your gaze moves down to my leather pants. They are very tight. There is little left to the imagination. You suck in a small gasp of air. “What’s the matter John?” I ask as you examine a nasty looking bruise on my left side. I then decide to play you. “Ouch,” I cry out as you put some experimental pressure on the bruise.

“Sherlock, where else does it hurt?” You ask in your clinical Doctor’s voice.

I feel re-buffed. In anger I grab your hand and thrust it under my shirt. “Here,” I say as I move your fingers over the tip of my breast. I shiver under your touch. I am amazed how quickly my body jumps to attention for you, John. I move in closer to breathe in the intoxicating scent of your skin. My eyes flutter as I draw in a shaky breath. I want you to feel me so I grab a hold of your wrist. I want to force it down my pants. Your pupils are dilated as you wrench free. “Stop it, Sherlock,” you shout with a slight tremor in your voice.

You stumble back as I release you. After a moment or two you get your breathing under control. “Sherlock, this case is unsafe. You could get a disease. I want you to stop it now, or I’ll leave. I’ll leave Baker Street and never come back. I’m not bluffing. I mean it.” There is a silence between us, it makes my stomach queasy. “Sherlock, please quit the case,” you whisper.

The expression in your eyes projects a thousand things, each one feels like a cut of rejection to me. “Fine, I’ll text the client and I’ll change.”

Relief softens the furrows in your brow. “Okay, good. I’ll get you another case I promise.” You voice pleads with me to understand.

There are a thousand things I want to say to you, each dies on my lips as you leave the room. I’ve been dismissed, yet again.

**3 Weeks Later**

“Are you sure this is the only way?” Molly asks.

I turn to look into her large brow doe eyes. “It has to be done. Are you going to help me or not?”

“Fine, but what about John’s feelings? Aren’t you at least going to let him know?” Molly asks.

Tears form in my eyes as I look away from your prying gaze. “No, Molly, John’s feelings aren’t as vested in our relationship as you would think. He’ll mourn me and then he’ll move on. That’s what people do, Molly. They move on.”

I walk out of St. Bart’s with the knowledge that I will fake my death. A part of me hopes it will break your heart as you have done mine.

 


	12. A Machine of Flesh and Blood

I gasp as I sit up. I can still hear your scream, “SHERLOCK.” I can hear your voice mumbling. “Let me through, he’s my friend, Oh God no, Jesus…” Then I feel you take my pulse. It no longer beats. It has been cut off by a device that I squeeze under my arm. For all intents and purposes I, Sherlock am dead to you-John Watson. I would have run to you in the grave yard had I heard the three little words I waited for in earnest. I put a listening device in my ear so that I could hear every word you spoke over my grave. You whine, you plead, you sniffle you say, “Just don’t be…be dead.” You beg me for a miracle. I harden my heart towards your pleas. For you have not said the three words I wanted to hear. “I love you, Sherlock.” So, I observe you with the cold detachment of a professional killer and I let you freeze.  
2 Years Later-After Sherlock is brought back to solve the Moriarty screen reappearance…  
I watch you pace in the front room. Everything looks the same in the flat, but everything is vastly different. You want to forgive Mary for her dishonesty, but you can’t find it within yourself to do so. She has lied to us yet again. “John, I don’t see the problem. So, Mary lied to you about being pregnant. It’s not as if you wanted a baby, right? I mean how would it look? Sherlock, the world’s greatest consulting detective, running around town with you and an infant strapped to your back.”  
You frown. “Sherlock, be serious for once.”  
I look at you in innocence. “What no good?”  
You sigh in exasperation. “Never mind, you’re just a machine. How would you know about love and trust?”  
My face crumples as I stare down at the worn carpet. You walk over to me. I look down at your feet. I refuse to look up. “Sherlock, I’m sorry,” you say.  
My voice trembles like on the roof top of St. Bart’s. “No need for apologies. I’m just a machine.”  
You sigh as you take ahold of my arm. “Sherlock, look at me.”  
I want to slap your face but I don’t, instead I just struggle to get untangled from your grasp. “Leave me alone,” I say as I wrench my arm free. I must get to my room before you see. I am too late. You are not as slow as you appear, dearest John.  
When you spin me around to face you, you are shocked by what you see. You see tears cascading down my alabaster skin. One of them drips on your hand. You look at it as if were poison, which it is. For my tears are laced with fear, self-loathing and regret. I turn away from you and run to my room. I am just about to throw myself on the bed and burrow under the covers when you burst in. “Sherlock, talk to me-NOW.” You shout.  
I feel like a child. “No,” I reply as I bury my face in my pillow, willing it to soak up every tear.  
You turn me over. You are sitting on the edge of my bed. Your hip touches mine. I lay partially between your arms; your hands are clenched into fists, making the bed sag under their angry pressure. “John,” I slur. “I’m fine, leave me alone.”  
“Why do you always do this to me, Sherlock?” You say as you bite on your lower lip. “What exactly do you want from me?”  
My voice is low-exhausted. “Think it through, John. You do know.”  
You push your fists deeper into the mattress. “No, I don’t know. Now quit talking in riddles and tell me what’s wrong.”  
I turn away from you till I am no longer facing you. “I gave you a miracle. You gave me nothing.” I whisper.  
You bounce the mattress with your fists again. “What the fuck are you talking about? Are you high?”  
I pull my knees up to my chest. “No, now get out.” I growl.  
You are stubborn John-you don’t leave. “Tell me straight up right now, Sherlock or I’ll call…I’ll call Mycroft. Sherlock, please,” you whisper gently. Your breath tickles the inside of my ear, leaving a small space of humidity.   
You roll my body over until I am almost in your arms. “Sherlock, I’m your friend let me help.”  
“I loathe you when you are like this, John. You’ve moved on. Sure I let you grieve, but you’ve moved on. I gave you a Jesus Christ resurrection miracle and you still moved on. Now, get out.” I shout through clenched teeth.  
Your brow furrows in confusion as I take your warm hand in my cold, clammy one. I put my finger against your forehead. “Think it through, John.” I whisper as I let my hand trail down your cheek.  
You back away. “Jesus, Sherlock you sound like we’re a couple.”  
I smile and then outright laugh. “Oh, no don’t say it again. We all know you’re not gay. Not John Hamish Watson, the doctor, the soldier, the heterosexual model for us all. Sherlock is not my boyfriend. We’re not a couple. And oh God don’t get me started about that scene at Angelo’s, in which you almost pissed yourself when I called you on your let’s date signals. People will talk. John Watson the confirmed bachelor. Relax, John I know I am sexually repugnant to you. I’m just a machine. I can’t fall in love. I can’t crave another’s touch. It’s all about the work. Now get out and leave me alone, John.” I am openly sweating as I shout out the last words.   
I see you struggle with the clues I have given you. Then you look me in the eyes. You frown, then you look away. When you glance back into my eyes I hide nothing from you. You take a sharp intake of breath. I smile. “Ah, John Watson finally understands. He finally observes. Don’t look so scared John. For a machine can’t seduce you, only a man of flesh and blood can make you throb, make you burn, make you scream. So, see no need to worry John. It’s only me the cold machine. Now get out.” I spit out the last words like an animal facing death after its paw has been caught in the steel jaws of a trap. Then my heart beats in anguish. What if you leave? Then my heart beats in fear. What if you stay?


	13. Mend Me Break Me

You hover over me staring, not saying a word. My teeth are clenched so tight that my jaw hurts.  I know what you want and you know what I want, but we are both too cowardly to act on it. Then something in me snaps. I thrust my hips until your body makes a circular arc. You are now underneath me. “John, I can’t do this anymore I…” My voice trails off in a whisper. You look frightened. You look angry. Yet, I peel back your expressions like an onion until I see something in the depths of your eyes; something that makes my heart beat faster. I count the pulse beats in your neck. They race as do mine. I place my hands on either side of your cheeks.

I smile at you. Then I press my lips to yours. You struggle against me for a moment or two. Then I push on a pressure point just below your ear and your mouth opens for me. I slip my tongue in. I explore slowly at first, heedless of the fact that you are not reciprocating. Then like a dormant volcano, you spring to life. Your tongue wraps itself around mine and I feel light headed as you devour me.  For a moment all is lost as our tongues intertwine. You push your pelvis against my upper thigh in desperation. I reach my hand down to relieve you, but you shove me away.

“Get up,” you hiss. I do as you say. “Do you have anything on under that Robe?” I shake my head no. “Get it off and put on your long coat.” I stare at you transfixed as you relive yourself. “Don’t just stand there. Do it,” you shout.

I let my robe fall open and flutter to the ground. I then put my coat on and stand before you. You let me watch as you work yourself. I move forward to touch you. “Stop, stay right there,” you command. When you are through you beckon for me to come forward. I tremble, for I get the distinct impression that you are not going to be gentle.

As soon as your lips touch me I whimper. “John.” You have no mercy. Either you’ve done this before or you are a quick learner. I wrap my fingers in your hair as you work. “God, John, you need to let up. It’s too much,” I say in a shaky voice. You look up at me for a second, but otherwise ignore me. Then I feel a pressure that starts deep within me. It makes everything tight. It makes everything hurt. “John, I think I’m going to pass out,” I scream out as I pull harder on your hair.

You stop for a moment, drool runs down your lips. “Am I hurting you?” You ask in a hoarse voice.

When I speak my voice sounds like a child. “No, it’s just that I feel…tight…like I’m going to explode.”

You pant as you look into my frightened eyes. “Good, that’s the way it’s supposed to feel. Just wait the best is yet to come,” you say. Then you go back to work.

When I feel you swallow, the room swirls around me, I see spots, then I cry out. I’m not surprised when everything fades away.

I open my eyes. I lay in your arms. Your hair is plastered to your forehead in sweaty mats. “Sherlock, it’s okay just take deep breaths,” you say as you stroke my face.

I concentrate on the soothing sounds of your voice. When I no longer struggle for air I look up at you. “What happened?” I ask.

You smile and then kiss the tip of my nose. “You blew your load on my shirt and then passed out.”

I feel my control slipping away, so I become indignant. “I’m sure I did no such thing.”

You slip out from underneath me. I look at the shiny substance on your shirt. Sure enough there is an arced pattern. I put my face in my hands and groan. “I’m sorry,” I say in a small voice.

Your hand massages a tense place on my shoulders. “It’s okay, Sherlock.”

“So, I guess the…the excitement was mainly on my part then?” I ask in dread. Each syllable feels heavy, encumbered.

You pull me into your arms. “Jesus, Sherlock I’m almost already ready for you again. Where do you keep your supplies?”

I don’t trust myself to speak, so I just point to the top draw of my nightstand. As you are rummaging around you say, ”You’d better get some water and stay hydrated. It’s going to be a long night.”

My heart sinks like a stone in my chest. This isn’t about love for you. It’s just lust. My eyes brim over with tears. What have I done?  Like a virginal bride on her wedding I look down at the ground. Then I lie on my back and stare up at you. You stop your preparations. “Sherlock, what is it? This is what you wanted, isn’t it?” I nod unable to meet your eyes. “Sherlock, you have done this before? Jesus, you’re not a virgin are you? You can’t be you went undercover as a sex worker.” You say aloud as you bite your lower lip.

“I’ve only done this…this once,” I say desperate to distract you.

You frown, and then sigh. “This is just a game to you isn’t it?”

“No, I love you, John,” I say in a small voice.

You look confused and then realization makes your eyes go wide. “You’re not teasing me? You love me?”

I nod. “My first time was not of my choosing.”

Your eyes darken. “You were raped?”

I feel ashamed. “Yes, but it was ages ago. I’m quite recovered now. So, I’m ready.”

“Sherlock, how old were you?” You ask in a whisper.

“I was ten. Mycroft and a friend left the house to get cigarettes and three of them stayed behind.” My hands start to shake as I remember that horrible day.

You hold me tighter. “Did Mycroft….did he…”

I shake my head. “No, Mycroft didn’t know about it until my time in Eastern Europe. During one of the interrogations it slipped out.”

“Sherlock, who are they. I will find them and…” I cut you off.

“John, it’s okay. I’m pretty sure Mycroft had them all killed.” I state in a matter of fact voice.

You are holding me tighter. “How can you be sure?” You ask as you kiss my forehead.

“They all met with grisly accidents over the last year.” I reply.

You sigh. “Well, I guess I’d better treat you right or Mycroft will kill me.”

I smile at you as I say, “Mycroft knows you are to be protected at all costs. I made him swear after he lost a game of Operation.”

You laugh and then grow serious. “Sherlock…”

I look up at you. “John, I want you to make love to me. I want you to make me yours.” I then begin to kiss you.

After a few moments you pull away. “Are you sure?” You ask.

I lay back against the pillows desperate to feel you inside me. “Yes, John please….”

“Your skin is so soft and white-like alabaster,” you say as you run your hands down my shivering thighs. Every move you make is deliberate but gentle, soft but hard. The process continues, part pain, part pleasure. With each thrust you mend me, with each thrust you break me, for tomorrow I’m sending you back to Mary.

  


 


	14. Vanquishing the Darkness

I look at your curled up naked body, even in sleep you are beautiful John Watson. I walk slowly towards you as if each step is my last. Your blonde tussled hair lays like an angel’s wings across your brow. Tears fill my eyes. Looking at you is too much. I kiss the side of your neck. You stir but don’t wake. I lay a note beside your pillow. I sling my duffle bag over my shoulder. “Though it sounds corny, I will always love you, John,” I whisper aloud.

My steps sound heavy on the wooden stairs. I open the door and make my way across the street. My shoulders are bent like an old man. Everything aches in my body. I keep to the shadows and watch for her.  Mary hurries to the door of 221b Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson opens the door for her. I smile, enter Mary exit Sherlock.

A few hours later I am on a jet headed to Eastern Europe, a one way mission, though Moriarty is dead his spirit still lives. Alone protects me. Alone I will defeat the plans Moriarty’s network has planned for London. London will be safe. John will be safe. John and Mary will be safe. Once the plane is airborne I walk over to the bar and pour myself a drink, then another, then another until I pass out.

Prague is a wonderful city; its dark spires fit my mood perfectly. I pull my scarf tighter around my neck, smiling as I think of you. “Drama Queen, that’s what you would call me,” I think as I torture myself with memories of you.

I don’t meet my contact until the next day, so I spend the rest of the afternoon and evening getting drunk. A knock on the door rouses me. I look around me in confusion. The room reeks of cigarette smoke, alcohol, sweat and desperation. How long have I been lying here? I look at the date on my watch. It’s a day and a half later. I’ve missed my meeting. I laugh and then light up another cigarette. The knocking at the door continues. I ignore it. After a few moments it stops and I immerse myself in the covert operation of avoiding my tumultuous inner thoughts. When the door flies open my body jerks in surprise. The cigarette falls from my cold fingers; its ember burns a hole in the rug. “It’s a good thing that I used Mycroft’s credit card,” I think as I smirk at it.

“Sherlock,” a voice bites into my self-loathing with an angry snap.

I look up and there is Mary. Her eyes are dark and full of anger. She shakes my letter to John in front of me. “Sherlock, just how much do you think we can take?” She asks in a menacing tone.

My words are slurred. “We?” My heart leaps in my chest. There you are-John. Your face is pale, your eyes puffy. “Jesus, you are beautiful, John,” I think as I smile at you.

The anger in your eyes fades; once again I am vindicated by just the slight upturn of your lips. I must cut you off. “What are you doing here? Wasn’t my note clear enough for you and why would you show it to Mary? Leave me,” I say as I shrink back to the corner of the bed. “How did you find me anyway? I’m on a mission.”

“A mission that was not meant for you little brother,” Mycroft says as he steps into the room. “Did you honestly think you could make a move without me?”

I turn my back on him and on you too-John. “Leave me alone, let me complete my mission, let me die.”

Mycroft sighs. “I’ll leave him to you.” Then without another word he leaves the room.

Mary reaches me first. “Sherlock, come home we love you.”

She takes my hands in her own. “Mary, you must hate me after what I’ve done.”

Mary’s blue eyes bore into mine. “Sherlock, I know you’ve been in love with John ever since the first night I met you and John has been in love with you long before he met me. The fact that you slept together has been a long time coming.”

I look at Mary in confusion. “I don’t understand,” I say.

Mary pulls my head down and then to my surprise she places her lips on mine. Out of curiosity my lips part. When Mary’s tongue touches mine I freeze, then her technique makes me respond. Her tongue is strong. Her breath is sweet. When she pulls away I feel cold. “Sherlock, John and I both love you. We both need you.” Then she hesitates. “We both want you.”

My skin instantly becomes warm as you dearest John wrap one arm and then another around my waist. You take my hand and lead me to the bed.  I lay back and let you both explore me. Like the goddess Shiva, multiple hands and fingers stroke me. I am afraid and aroused at the same time. “I love you, Sherlock and so does Mary. Will you let us love you?” You whisper.

I look into your eyes dearest John and though I’m afraid I can refuse you nothing. “Yes,” I whisper. I will my body to relax as I let you and Mary strip away my clothing. I start to shake. I am full of performance anxiety. It is an alien emotion, for I have always excelled at everything.

Gently, you and Mary roll me up in the sheet. You both make me feel safe as your bodies shake and bond together. Though the force of your love making batters against me I am safe in the material cocoon you have both wrapped me in. When the writhing and movement stops you both cuddle against me. I fall asleep with both of your moist arms and legs wrapped around me. And for once in my life I don’t dream of evil. I don’t dream at all. I just sleep. The darkness of my nocturnal wanderings is vanquished by the two loves of my life you and Mary.

 


	15. Don't Get Too Comfortable Sherlock

We decide to stay on in Prague for the holidays and for the first time in my life I am happy. The love of you, dearest John and Mary keeps me safe, makes me whole. A fear, a premonition claws at my sub-conscious like an evil bird of prey. I ignore it. When I shiver you hold me tighter.

“Sherlock, what is it?” You ask in concern as you push a damp lock of hair out of my eyes.

“I’m fine, John,” I lie as my fingers trace the scar. The round scar that almost took you from me before I laid eyes on you at St. Bart’s. “It is the gunshot wound from a war that will never be won.” I mutter to myself.

You take my head between your palms and kiss me deeply. My body is a slave to your touch. My desire is betrayed by the tension that builds in my groin.

“Well, well it looks like someone is happy to see someone,” Mary says as she winks at me.

My face flushes. “Whatever do you mean?” I say as Mary laughs.

She then jumps on the bed and begins to wrestle with me. “Oh yeah, then what’s this?” Mary asks as she playfully reaches her hand underneath the sheet.

I love Mary but I’m still not comfortable with showing her the depth of my desire for John. She rolls her eyes, kisses me and then John. “I’m going for a morning run. Then I’m going to get my hair done and buy an outrageously priced dress for the opera tonight. What color should it be?”

You are distracted by the touch of my thigh against yours. “Red you blurt out.”

You rub your hand further up my thigh until I gasp. “John, not red. The dress should be midnight blue, to match her lovely eyes.”

Mary smiles again. She looks like a cat. “I’m going to be gone all day, you two enjoy yourselves.”

Her perfume lingers in the air for a moment after she is gone and I wonder why I feel bereft. The thought soon leaves me as your skilled surgeon’s hands probe in all the right places. I lean back in silence and enjoy the skill of your fingers as they bring me to bear. “Sherlock,” you whisper. “I want to try something new.”

I dig my heels into the sheet so that I can focus on my words. “What do you want to try, John Hamish Watson?”

You smile into my eyes as you kiss my cheek. “I want you to top me.”

My whole body tenses and not in a good way. “Absolutely not I’m a bottom.”

You trace the line of my jaw. “You strike me as versatile. I want to feel you, Sherlock.”

I shake my head. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You lean back and laugh. “Since when have you cared about hurting me? You know splat, there goes Sherlock from the top of St. Bart’s.”

I pull away from you. “This is different.”

“Please Sherlock”, you say as you pull out our props from the nightstand beside the bed. I shudder with desire as I watch you prepare.

When you are done preparing us both, you slide underneath me, wrapping your legs around my waist. “Is this how you want me, Sherlock?”

I am overcome as I move your legs back to your shoulders, flexing them at a 45-degree angle to your body. I then kiss the round scar on your shoulder. My hands wander over your chest and stomach, delighting in the way you respond. You guide me, so that my entrance into the warmth of your body seems effortless. You clamp around me.

“John, you need to relax,” I say as I wince at the tight pressure that restricts my movements. I then kiss you and talk to you in French. Then the pressure eases up freeing us both. Our bodies move together like the well-oiled pistons of a fine automobile. I plunge, you push, uniting as one. You call my name and then I call yours. Our releases are so closely timed that we both shudder and moan simultaneously.

Afterwards I lay in your arms, my body won’t stop shaking from the adrenaline rush. “John, did I hurt you?” I stutter.

“Sherlock, it’s okay I’m fine. You didn’t hurt me. In fact, I have never experienced anything so marvelous in my entire life.” You say as you stroke my quivering limbs into submission. “I want to be sore when we go to the opera tonight, so that every time I shift in my chair from boredom I will think of you.”

I sit up and then tear off the covers. “So, I did hurt you?” I ask as I inspect you for damage.

You laugh. “Sherlock, you have no boundaries do you? Stop rooting around my anus like a dog. I’m fine.”

You always bring out the playful side of me John. I bounce to the side, bark and lick your cheek. For a moment or two we wrestle. Then you pin me down on the bed. “Mr. Holmes, are you ready for another round.”

I grin. “Indubitably my dear Doctor, indubitably.”

***

A few hours later you and I stand in front of the mirror admiring each other in our tuxes. Mary comes up behind us. “You both look so handsome,” She says as she kisses your neck and then mine. I blush as Mary smiles. “You are so cute when you blush, Sherlock.”

You stand back and look at me. “Yes, he certainly does.”

I grab Mary’s black eye liner pencil off the counter and rim my eyes. “Very sexy, it brings out your eyes,” you say.

Mary winks at me. “Yes, it does.”

All heads turn as we exit the elevator and enter the hotel lobby. We are a striking trio. My heart feels light and I struggle to banish the thought that rolls around in my thoughts. “Nothing lasts forever, don’t get too comfortable. All hearts are broken. All lives end.”

 

 

 


	16. Intermission is Over

‘Puttin on the Ritz’ echoes through my brain as the three of us make an entrance in the Prague Opera House. You dear John are in the middle. Mary and I flank each side of you. We are proud of our prize. Up the stairs we go to our box seat, arm in arm, hand in hand. We settle in our seats waiting for the performance. The whole audience is a buzz with the unintelligible sounds of the conversations around us. I close my eyes and wait for the house lights to dim. I don’t have long to anticipate. The lights flicker then go out. Darkness surrounds us. The orchestra tunes to an A. The curtain rises. The Opera begins.

The first chord of Mozart’s Don Giovanni fills the house. I close my eyes in pleasure for music is the closest reconciliation between my mind palace and the temporal world. Mozart’s music portrays Don Giovanni as the flawed evil character that he is. He is not a romantic figure. He is selfish. He is a rapist and a thief. He steals the joy from all those that surround him. Only his faithful servant sticks by him, attempting to dissuade him from the fall that is sure to overcome his master. My thoughts are consumed by the darkness in the D Minor chords of the Opera. Mozart brings me to despair. I am a fallen creature. Just as I shudder at the thought of giving in to the black thoughts that surround me, the house lights come back on. It is intermission.

You have fallen asleep on Mary’s shoulder. You wipe a string of drool from the side of your face. You then clap and ask in a sleepy voice. “Is it over?”

Mary and I smirk at each other. “John, it’s intermission. Why don’t you go get a drink or something? Sherlock and I will join you in a moment.”

You get up yawn, stretch and then you almost run from the box. You are like an errant puppy that has just escaped from its pen. I smile. You, John Watson are adorable. Mary watches your departure with fondness. A fondness that softens her features. In the semi-darkness of the house she looks like a girl. Once she is sure you are out of ear shot she turns to me.

“Sherlock, I need you to promise me something.” She says as she clutches at my arm.

I am uneasy but I smile anyway. “Anything for you, Mary. What is it?” I ask as I watch the people below us. Some are talking. Some are stretching. Only a few sit in dazed shock from the power of Mozart’s music.

“I want you to promise me that you will take care of John in case something happens to me.” Her eyes search mine.

I shrug her off. “Nonsense, nothing is going to happen to you.”

She holds my arm in a tight grip. “Sherlock, promise me. Promise me that you won’t hurt him with your callus stunts. He would never survive another St. Bart’s”

I swallow. Tears fill my eyes. As much as I felt the pain of your rejection and I grieved for my plight of unrequited love, I let you grieve. I cut you to the core. I blink back tears. “I promise, Mary. John will not fall. I would fight legions of angels to protect him.”

Mary smiles. “Yes, Sherlock I believe you would. Now come on drama queen let’s join John and get something to drink.”

I look at Mary in wonder, for with a smile she has dispelled the dark foreshadowing that surrounds my heart. Dearest Mary, what would we ever do without you?

I go outside to have a cigarette. I watch you and Mary from the doorway. You both are so beautiful. Too beautiful. I fear my darkness will sully you both. Then the lights flicker. Intermission is over.


	17. Descent into Hell

The second half of the opera is dark and terrible; it challenges my mind with its complex duets and resolutions. In each recapitulation there is a slight tonal difference. I look at the people around me, John, Mary, the others, most have no idea of what Mozart has accomplished. There is one who would know. There is one who would hear the complexity of Mozart’s Opera-Moriarty. He would know. He would hear. I look at John he is sound asleep on Mary’s shoulder oblivious of the rape and murder that Don Giovanni reaps upon any who oppose him. I steeple my fingers together and rest them at the fulcrum point just underneath my nose. Don Giovanni is doomed. His time is short.

The statue of the murdered soldier knocks at the door for Don Giovanni. A D minor chord fills the theatre. It is a reckoning, an I.O.U. A summons for Don Giovanni’s descent into hell. Mary watches me as a trickle of sweat rolls down my forehead onto my cheek. I feel the madness of Don Giovanni sink into my chest as his faithful servant and friend begs Don Giovanni to repent. And with one phrase Don Giovanni dooms himself, “No siento…” the statue informs Don Giovanni that his time has run out. Terror overcomes Don Giovanni as his servant and he are carried off to hell. After his demise everyone makes plans. Don Giovanni is dead or is he? This thought rattles around in my brain like an unresolved phrase. I jump when Mary addresses me.

“Sherlock, are you alright?”

You dearest John, look around and yawn. “Is it over?”

Mary smiles. “Yes, it’s over. You’ve been a very good boy. You both deserve a treat tonight.”

I look at you, you look back. Mary smiles and takes both of our hands. I entwine my fingers through yours and then hers. For a moment I grasp them tightly, unwilling to leave the safety of the Opera House-our sanctuary.

You jump up. “Come on let’s see what Mary has in store for us,” you say as we push our way through the dispersing crowds.

There is fresh fallen snow that covers the ground and as Mary reaches down into its powdery depths you throw a perfectly aimed snowball at her. She laughs as you take her around the waist. I stare and marvel at your ability to be happy again. She slips and you both fall to the ground laughing.

In spite of myself I smile at my two angels. “Come on Sherlock, join us.” Mary shouts as she lays down in the snow and moves her arms back and forth to make circular wings. You lie next to her and do the same. For a moment the world seems magical-tranquil-peaceful like the domed fantasy atmosphere of a snow globe. Then you stand up and beckon to me.

I am just about to join you both when a hear a sharp ping and then the sound of impact. A red dot appears in the middle of Mary’s forehead. A viscous river of blood runs down Mary’s nose and then her cheek. Even before she hits the ground I know she is gone. People shriek and run for cover. I run towards you as bullets rip through the soft drifts of snow.

“John, stay down,” I shout as you crawl towards Mary.

As you pull her into your arms, warm blood flows down her neck cooling as it drips into the freshly created snow angel’s wing. My mind calculates that the warmth from her body is dissipating. Soon the ground underneath her will give way to the cold grip of winter.

Your face is white and for a moment I fear you have been shot too. Then you reach up to pull me down. Dearest John you are too late. A bullet nicks my collar bone, separating a section of my wool coat, flesh fills the once clothed area, blood sprays onto my neck as I sink to the ground. If an artery’s hit, I will be dead in seconds. You cover my wound with your surgeon’s hands. “Sherlock keep your eyes fixed on me, focus goddammit.” You say. I smile at the irony of your command. ‘Juxtaposition,’ is the last word that goes through my mind.


	18. Mind Palace Music

I can hear sirens screaming in the distance they are coming for me. Dearest John, you squeeze my hand begging me to stay with you. I will comply if nature allows. I look over at you, my breath fogs up the oxygen mask. Your shirt is covered in blood, mine and Mary’s. The coppery substance is comingled-inseparable-the same. You smooth my damp curls away from my forehead. “Sherlock,” you whisper.

I grin back at you and then everything fades….

***

I sit up in bed, pulling at plastic tubes as I do so. “Beethoven’s Symphony No 6 in F Major, Op68, the Pastoral Symphony,” I say aloud. My voice is hoarse, my speech slurred.

You rush to my side. “Sherlock, it’s me John. I’m here. Look at me.”

I do as you command. You look terrible. Your face is white and the skin underneath your eyes is swollen. I reach over and run my thumb along your bottom lip. “You’re dehydrated, John.”

You place your forehead against mine. “Sherlock, Sherlock, yes I’m dehydrated. Now what’s this about Beethoven?”

“I can hear the Symphony with perfect clarity in my mind. Make a note about the pain med’s I’ve been given. I may want to experiment when we get home.” I say as I listen to each note as they swirl around my mind palace in perfect detail and color.

You frown at me as you read my chart. “It sounds like you’re having a drug reaction. I’m going to call the nurse.”

I fight to enjoy the music. I should have thought it through before I told you my observations. No doubt I will soon be given a counteractive drug and the aural perfection in my mind will fade and then disappear.

Sure enough a dour nurse pumps something into my IV and you, dear John and Beethoven are gone.

When my eyes next open the music is no longer drifting through my mind palace.

“Sherlock, how do you feel?” You ask in a voice heavy with grief.

I fix my bird of prey glance on you as I say, “John, you’re still dehydrated. For god’s sake get something to drink.”

You smile in triumph. “And that’s the Sherlock we all know and love.” Then we are both silent.

I speak first. “John, Mary is…”

You nod as a tear slides down your cheek. “Yesss…,” you stutter.

I fight back tears as I swallow two or three times. “I will hunt down Mary’s killer, John, until we are both dead if need be.”

You are at my side in an instant. “You will do know such thing. I can’t lose you, Sherlock. We will work together on this. I am willing to give it all up thought if it means that you could be…be killed. I just… just….”

I hold out my arm to you. I stretch as far as I can until the IV wiggles a warning in my vein. You clasp my fingers and bring them to your lips. “Somehow we will get through this, Sherlock….”

I smile. I hear Beethoven again. This time I keep silent about the music. I caress your thumb with my thumb. “We will get through this together, John.” I close my eyes and fall asleep to the angelic music of a deaf composer long since dead. A tear slides down my own cheek as I realize that Mary is gone. The only place I will ever see her is in the recesses of my mind palace, for unlike you dearest John I do not believe in heaven. No angels await, only darkness.

 


	19. To Hell in a Handbasket

Four Weeks Later-London

“John, you can stop fussing. I can make it up the stairs on my own,” I say as I weave on the walk just outside 221b Baker Street.

“Sherlock, don’t be stubborn, just lean on me,” You say as you open the door.

A wave of dizziness assails me and so I relent and lean into you. Feeling the warmth of your body makes me want to purr and then I am ashamed for Mary is dead. The stairs seem to yawn into infinity as I look up at them in annoyance. Then right on cue Mrs. Hudson comes down and begins to fuss over You and I like a mother hen.

“Oh John, I’m so sorry,” She says as she dabs her eyes.

You nod, pat her on the shoulder and then turn to me. “Come on, Sherlock. Let’s get you to bed.”

Sweat collects on my upper lip as I nod in ascent. You settle me in, check my wound and then you look down at me in concern. “Sherlock, how much pain are you in?”

I’m too tired for subterfuge. “I need something more than an NSAID, John.”

You suck the skin of your cheek in as you say, “Sherlock, I can’t give you any OxyContin.”

I look over at you in desperation as you continue on. “Because you’re an…”

I grasp the sheets, not from passion but from frustration as I reply, “Go ahead say it. SAY IT…”

You grind your teeth as you say, “Fine, you’re an addict.”

I lean back against the pillow, your words hurt. “I’m clean, you know that, John.”

You sigh and sit down beside me on the bed. Your gaze intensifies as you smooth a lock of damp hair from my forehead. “Sherlock, you know once an addict, always an addict.”

I don’t argue as tears spring to my eyes. You then reach over and give me two useless NSAID’S and then you hand me a pill I don’t recognize. “What’s this?” I ask with a note of hope.

You smile and press your forehead to mine. “It’s a non-addictive sleeping pill. Now swallow it like a good boy.”

I do as you request and then look at you in concern. “John, you’ve lost too much weight. Let Mrs. Hudson fatten you up.”

You stroke my forehead until my eyes grow heavy. “Go to sleep, Sherlock,” You whisper.

When my eyes open you are curled up at my back in the fetal position. You used to sleep with one leg draped around mine, your head on my shoulder, with your hands wrapped around my torso, your fingers resting on the trail of hair underneath my navel. I used to complain of the closeness, now I miss it. I miss you.

I am amazed at the effectiveness of the sleeping pill, for it is morning. I can hear you on the phone arguing with some official about the details of Mary’s urn. “How bloody hard is it to burn up a body and get the ashes back to London?” You shout.

I slip on my robe and walk into the main room. You have just thrown down the phone and have put your face in your hands. “Oh, John,” Mrs. Hudson says as she wraps her arms around you. I back away tears are not my territory.

Days pass, Mary’s urn comes home to rest and with each passing day I can feel you slipping away from me. I don’t know how to stop it. I don’t know how to keep you close. I don’t know how to comfort you for I am grieving myself. So, it is no surprise when one day you come to me and say, “Sherlock, if you don’t mind I’m going back to sleep in my own room. It’s just that I’m having trouble sleeping and I don’t want to disturb you.”

I look up into your blue eyes and I want to beg you to stay in bed with me but instead I just look away and say, “Whatever, John, you know it makes no difference to me.”

I think my answer surprises you for you grow quiet for a moment. “Right then, I’m get my things out of your room as soon as possible.”

I wave you off pretending to look through a microscope that I have set up in the kitchen. “Take your time, whatever.”

After you’ve left the room my hands start to shake. “Sherlock,” a voice says and I turn with a vengeance on the person who has seen my weakness.

“What is it Mrs. Hudson?” I shout.

She ignores my tone and gestures towards the door. “Go after him, Sherlock, go on.”

I shrink within myself. “No,” I reply and then turn my attention away from her. After a few moments she gives up and I am alone.

A drip from the faucet claims my attention. I listen to it obsessively for a few moments before I decide to go out. The noise of the city consumes me and I am happier for it. I make contact with an old acquaintance. Shadows grow into human form as I make my deal with the devil. I give money for a package. A package with a needle. A package that will take the pain away. “Hello darkness my old friend,” I whisper as I plunge the needle into my vein.

I am calm and sedate as I walk through the streets and back to Baker Street. “I will beg John not to move out of our bedroom, if I have to,” I think as I whistle tune from Mozart’s ‘The Marriage of Figaro’. I open the door, spin Mrs. Hudson around and then look around the empty flat.

“Where’s John?” I ask.

Mrs. Hudson smiles a sad smile as she walks over to me. “Sherlock, your timing is terrible. John’s gone out. He said he’d be back in a few hours.”

The drug I have infused into my vein backfires on me. The cozy feeling has been replaced by fear and anxiety. “What if John, doesn’t come back?” I think. I race up to our room in a blind panic. I am sweating. My collarbone is throbbing. But those things are nothing compared to the anxiety that grips me when I see you’ve moved your things out of our bedroom. “What if he moves out altogether?” I think as I sit down on the bed and rock. It’s been around 8 hours since I last used. My bottom lip sticks out. “I’m not an addict,” I whisper aloud.

It feels as if the nerves in my arms have caught fire. John is still not home. I grind my teeth together. I creep down the stairs and walk out into the night. Like an undead creature I make my way across town. I withdraw enough money from my account so as not to arouse Mycroft’s suspicions and then I get the rest from a secret account no one knows about. With money in hand I buy enough substance to last for a few days.

As I count out the money, I am appalled at the increase in price. The weasel of a man looks at me and shrugs. “Sorry, Mr. Holmes, but everything is going up. The whole world is going to hell in a hand basket.”

I smile as I take the package from him. “Yes, isn’t though.”


	20. Flames of Woe

The days go by and I am in full use of my 7% solution. It is getting hard to find a vein. You dearest John come and go. I hardly notice. I am in the proverbial, ‘zone’.  Mrs. Hudson knows something is up and so I avoid her at all costs. I refuse all the cases put before me. I would rather stay within the confines of my mindpalace where I am safe. My sex drive is diminished. I feel numb. Until I hear the water in the shower running and I think of you, the water cascading over your short, thick thighs, over your arms, the wound in your shoulder, the nest of hair between your legs, your lovely manhood resting like an egg, dormant, waiting for me.

I look down, I am fully aroused. I tap on the bathroom door. I see the outline of your body. I slide the door open and join you.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” You ask as you jump back.

“Bend down for the soap,” I whisper.

You turn off the water for a moment. “Sherlock, I’m tired, quit playing around.”

The rebuff hurts even in my drug induced state. “Fine,” I say. You turn the water back on. I sit down on the toilet, my butt cheeks slid on the seat. My groin aches with desire. I hate myself as silent tears flow down my cheeks. I reach between my legs, to relieve the unrequited tension that coils within me.

The quick motions I make with my hand do nothing to improve my mood. I am finishing up as you exit the shower. My body spasms a couple of times as you stare at me. “Sherlock, did you just jerk off while I was in the shower?”

I stand up and wash my hands off. Then I look at you and I want to hurt you like you hurt me. “Why John, you are a proper genius. However, did you figure that out by yourself?” I ask as I do a quick mock parody of a man getting off with my hands and hips.

You sigh. “Sherlock, I don’t have time for this. I’m sorry I just don’t feel like it, but we should talk. I’m worried about you.”

I see the concern in your face. I smile as I dig in deep with a verbal thrust. “Sod off, John, I’m going out. Don’t wait up.” The hurt in your eyes makes me smirk.

I get dressed, tell Mrs. Hudson I’m going out. I shoot up again and take a couple of balloons with me for the road. I then take the motorcycle that I promised you I’d get rid of and ride through the streets of London high. I blast music inside my helmet. I laugh as I almost collide with several vehicles.

I swear as a flashing blue light reflects in one of my mirrors. “Good luck, catching me,” I think as I ditch the copper.

I go to my drug den. I will wait for you to come and get me. Hours go by, then days, I make out a list for Mycroft and then out of loneliness and boredom I become a willing slave to my habit. When someone comes for me, it is not you. It is Mycroft. I look into his eyes, wrong color of blue, wrong eyes, wrong person. “Sod off,” I say and then turn over.

In a rare moment of tenderness my brother smooths a dirty lock of hair from my forehead. “Time to go to the clinic,” he whispers.

I struggle with him, brother against brother. I sucker punch my own brother, barely noticing as he hits the ground.

I wander the streets, people avoid me. I keep to the dark corners. When I go to withdraw some funds, my account has been frozen. “Damn, Mycroft,” I mutter.

I sneak back into the flat. You are not there. I have to get my hands on some cash, for my muscles are starting to tighten from withdrawals. I then begin to rummage through everything in the flat, looking for anything of value. I grab some of my science equipment, my laptop, your laptop, Mrs. Hudson’s cookie jar of cash, your wedding ring, your army medals, some books, then finally my violin. I pawn it all. I then take to the streets and blend in with my homeless network.

I’ve been on the street for almost two weeks when one of my homeless soldiers hands me a note. My grubby hands take it, holding it up to the light. It is from you. It reads: “Sherlock, god knows I’ve tried to get over Mary, but I can’t escape the guilt. I have to go away for a while. Mycroft will explain. These things are difficult for me, but please know that I love you, Sherlock. Your Doctor JW.”

My hands shake as I make my way back to the flat, maybe I can still catch you. I must beg you not to leave. When I get to the flat, I race up the stairs. Mycroft is there. A pile of things lays in a prominent place in the middle of the room. It is everything I had pawned; all the items are there except for my heart. For a moment I think I can see it alongside our pile of valuables, beating as I bleed out. The room swirls around me. I cannot face this. The reality of being a grieving adult is too much to bear. When my eyes next open, Mycroft is holding me in his arms. His eyes are full of pain, but he doesn’t say so. He just holds me tight. I don’t struggle, not even when I am buckled down to a gurney. The last thing I see as I am carried out of the flat, is your medals dearest John. The firelight reflects off of them, making them glow, consigning my soul to flames of woe.


	21. This Little Piggy went to Market

I look at the sealed envelope in my hand. I then look back at Mycroft. “What is this?” I ask.

“Open it,” Mycroft orders.

I sigh. “And everyone thinks I’m the drama Queen.” As soon as my eyes behold your handwriting, dearest John, my hands start to shake and I read.

Dear Sherlock,

I don’t know how to begin except to say I’m sorry for leaving you like I did. I had a good reason. It turns out that Mary really was pregnant. Sherlock, I have a daughter. The baby was being used as a pawn to control Mary. It breaks my heart to think of the stress our dearest Mary must have been under. I was given strict instructions not to involve you. Rest assured I will be safe and when I come home I will be bringing my daughter home. I know you will be clamoring for details but please be patient I will explain everything when we get home.”

I look up at Mycroft as the letter slips through my fingers to lie amongst my Iv lines.  “I’ve got to get out of here. If John is in danger I must help him.”

Mycroft pushes me back in bed. “Sherlock, you have to get well first.”

As soon as Mycroft is off the premises I check myself out of the clinic. I have to prepare the apartment for a baby. I have to clean, remove body parts from the fridge and get baby things. Mrs. Hudson looks in on me in concern as I attempt to tackle the kitchen.

“Sherlock what are you doing? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you clean,” Mrs. Hudson says as she looks to the left to recall an incident that both of us knows never occurred.

My eyes sparkle as I throw away containers of rotten Chinese food. “John, is coming home and he’s bringing a baby with him.”

“What?” Mrs. Hudson asks in surprise as she checks my pupils for signs of drug use.

“I’m not going to repeat it again. John is bringing a baby home. Now chop, chop help me clean this mess up.” I demand.

Mrs. Hudson laughs. “Oh, Sherlock what are you up to now? Clean your own kitchen. I’m not your housekeeper. Also, if John is bringing a baby home he would never bring it here.”

I stare at her in annoyance. She is right of course. What sane person would bring a baby to 221b Baker Street?

A few days later, I get a text from you it reads: Staying over in Switzerland at Mary’s apartment. Please don’t try and come to us. We will be home soon. Oh, and just so you know no need to clean anything, not that you would. I am renting a flat for the baby and I across town. So, no need to worry about a baby underfoot at Baker Street.

I read the text aloud to Mrs. Hudson as we both look around at the spotless flat. “I’m sorry dear,” she whispers.

I maneuver around her. “I’m going out,” I say as I leave her, slamming the door on the way out. The only thing that keeps me from haunting my den of iniquity is a text from Lestrade. It reads: dead body found on Market Street, missing big toe. Come at once, I need you.

I smile the day is looking up. When I get to the scene there are mobs of reporters, cops, and ghouls. I duck under the police tape and head towards Lestrade. Just before I make it to him a motorcycle skids to the side of me and rights itself. As the rider takes off his/her helmet I say, “Nice riding.”

I gasp in shock when the helmet comes off. It is Anderson, but not the Anderson I know. This Anderson is dressed all in black, the hair that once hung around his face is now pulled back in a ponytail, his beard his trimmed, showing off a set of cheekbones to rival my own.

Anderson stands before me, the only thing unchanged are his sad, blue eyes. “You like the bike?” I nod still unable to believe Anderson’s transformation. He blushes under my gaze and looks down. “Well, I kind of went crazy after my wife left me and when I thought you had killed yourself.”

I peer at him through narrowed eye lids. “So, no wife? How are the state of Donavan’s knees?”

Anderson throws back his head and laughs. “Just fine. I’m single.” He closes the distance between us. I am the first to back away. “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” he says and then melts into the crowd.

Something about Anderson sets me on edge. I shake my head to clear it and then head to the crime scene. The body is male, approximately 40 years of age. His throat has been slit but it is his big toe that I want to see or rather the space where it once resided. A deep socket stares back at me. I look at Lestrade. “Where is the big toe?” I ask.

Lestrade points to the top of the street sign where it is perched. I smile. “This little piggy went to market,” I say.

“What the bloody hell are you talking about?” Lestrade bellows.

I do a little jump and land in front of him. “We are dealing with a serial killer. This is only the beginning. There will be another murder. The victim will be at home and the second toe will be removed.”

Lestrade’s eyes bulge out as he puts a hand over my mouth. “Sherlock, just solve it, don’t predict. I don’t want to have to arrest you on suspicion of murder again.”

I smirk and then look over my shoulder. Anderson is watching us. He walks towards us, not smiling. Though he speaks to Lestrade of mundane matters his eyes never leave my face. I get angry. He must know I need a fix and finds it great fun to mock me. “I have to go,” I say as I shove past Lestrade and then Anderson.

Anderson follows me. I open my mouth to say something and then shut it as Anderson asks, “Sherlock, do you need a ride home? I have an extra helmet.”

It is a challenge. He holds out the helmet and I take it. The ride through London is glorious. Anderson takes chances and I revel in the danger as we weave through traffic. By the time we reach Baker street I feel a bit nauseous.  I fall off the bike in a heap. Anderson helps me up. I scowl at him. “Come to gloat over my addictions?” I ask in a spiteful tone.

Anderson takes a small first aid kit out of his back pack and reaches for my bloodied hand. His body shivers as he takes off his gloves and touches my bare hand. “Though I am lowering the IQ of the whole street by speaking I myself am no stranger to addictions.”

I press my fingers over my bandaged palm. “Thanks for this,” I say. I am about to say something hateful but the sorrowful look in his eyes stops me.

Anderson then reaches out and takes my hand to inspect his work. My heart hammers in my chest as his fingers graze mine. He intakes a sharp breath of air and then releases my hand. “Good night, Sherlock,” he says and then hops on his motorcycle and is gone.

 


	22. Baker Street Addictions

That night I have a nightmare. Mary’s death plays over and over in my mind. I can’t make it stop. I awake with a scream. My sheets are damp with sweat and I know it’s time for a fix. I grow angry as I walk over to my sock drawer, for the indexing of my socks is all undone. Why is it undone? Because I turned my drug den into a bloody nursery. “Fuck you, John,” I think as I rummage around for my balloon, spoon, lighter and syringe.

I tie off my arm and then plunge the needle into a bluish vein. I stumble backwards and fall into bed. I smile as my senses fade into oblivion.

“Sherlock, are you alright? Can you hear me?” A harangued voice whispers into my ear.

“Sod off,” I mumble as I turn over on my stomach. It isn’t John. So, why should I care?

A gentle hand rests on my brow. I open my eyes and the figure takes shape. It is Anderson. “Sherlock, are you okay?” He asks.

I slap his hand away. “Of course I am you twat. Why else would I be talking to you?” I smile as I stand up and let the sheets fall where they may. Anderson’s cheeks flush as I stand naked before him. I yawn and stretch. Then I scratch my navel. “So, what do you want?” I ask in satisfaction as his eyes trail down to where my fingers have just rested. I smirk and scratch a little lower.

Anderson swallows. “Umm, there’s been another murder. It’s just as you said. This one took place in the home of the victim and his second toe has been removed.”

“Umm, just as I said,” I state in a haughty tone as I walk down the hall to the bathroom. Anderson follows me and then runs into me when I stop abruptly. For some reason I want to rub my bum across his crotch until it hardens. I stop just short of this with my hand on the door knob. “Are you coming?” I ask in a teasing voice.

Anderson moves his hands behind his back in a swift manner but not before I see them shaking. I lick my lips and am surprised when he backs me against the wall. His body is perfectly aligned with mine as he whispers through clenched teeth. I expect him to tell me to go to hell, but he does the unexpected. He presses his lips to mine in a firm kiss. He then pulls his mouth away and kisses my ear lobe. “Other people have feelings too, Sherlock. Quit being a prick. I’ll be downstairs if you need a ride.”

My mouth stands open in shock. Anderson winks at me and then his face betrays his despair. “Our addictions will kill us all and break our hearts,” he says and then leaves me alone with a raging case of morning wood. I take my shower and then hide like a child in the flat, fearful of a lingering bully outside the door. I only emerge when I hear the throttle on his bike roar, carrying him away into the early morning fog.

By the time I reach the crime scene, Lestrade is livid. “Where have you been? I need to let forensics in.”

I exhale a plume of smoke, gobbling up the last bits of tobacco before I taste the paper filaments of the filter. “Sorry, I had trouble getting a cab.”

Lestrade looks at me in speculation before he replies. “Well, get in there so I can send Anderson in, for I know he won’t work with you.”

Anderson steps forward in an uncharacteristic show of confidence. “It’s fine, I’ll work with him.”

Lestrade steps forward and sniffs Anderson. “Well, I can’t smell alcohol. Fine, I’ll leave you both to it.”

Lestrade exits the room and Anderson and I are alone at the crime scene. We both stare at each other, as if seeing each other for the first time. I clear my throat. “Umm, thanks for working with me, Anderson.”

Anderson stands up from his kneeling position and stands directly in front of me. “Phillip, call me Phillip.”

I frown as I ask, “Philip, who the hell is Philip?”

Anderson’s lips twist into a sad lopsided smile. “It’s my first name.”

I appear to consider the proposition for a moment or two before I answer. “Nope, don’t like it. I’m calling you Anderson.”

Anderson chuckles. “Fine, Sherlock, now let’s work together, shall we?” He then steps back to let me examine the body. “The victim is male, around 50 years of age, the second toe of each foot has been removed and placed where?” I ask as I look around the room.

Anderson bends over the body and inspects the victim’s feet. “The toes have been removed with a surgical instrument.”

I snort as I reply in a sing song voice, “Oooh, brilliant you’re so smart, Anderson.”

In two strides Anderson is across the room, he locks the door and then slams me up against the wall. “Don’t do that. I don’t like it.” Grabbing my hair, Anderson begins to kiss me in a most impure manner. He then takes the heel of his palm and rubs my crotch until I cry out. The room swirls around as black spots appear before my eyes. Anderson is stronger than he looks and I am amazed when he lowers me to the ground.

I lay helpless under his sexual ministrations, gasping with pleasure. It has been so long since I have felt another’s touch. Too long. Tears run down my face as I gasp, releasing in my pants. I whimper in embarrassment and discomfort. Anderson shows no mercy as he finishes what he started. Transfixed I watch as he rubs the front of his own trousers. His eyes never lose contact with mine. I watch as his eyes widen and his head snaps back.

“Fuck, Sherlock, you can undo me without a touch,” he cries out as his body tightens.

I observe as his eyes lose their luster. Like a corpse he slumps to the ground. I hear pounding; it is not my heart. Someone is knocking on the door.

“Sherlock, unlock this door now,” Lestrade orders.

I am the first to recover. I look down at the wet spot in front of my trousers and button my coat shut. With a bored expression on my face I open the door and Lestrade charges in like a raging bull.

He looks from me to Anderson and then back again. “Why did you lock the door? I thought you would have killed each other by now.”

Anderson smiles. “We’re getting along splendidly, aren’t we Sherlock?”

I say nothing.

Lestrade frowns but dosen’t pursue his line of questioning. “The second toe has been removed from each foot surgically. Judging from the state of the man’s flat and his clothes I deduce he is single and most likely single. He appears to have no connection to the first man and therefore I am happy to report that this is the work of a serial killer.” I say as I smile at the delicious thought.

Donovan sighs, “God, you’re such a pervert, getting off on this stuff.”

I smile and then look at Anderson. “Umm, I’m sure I’m not the only one whose gotten off in this flat today.”

Lestrade grimaces. “Oh, right would you two stop. We’ve got a case to solve. Focus, now.”

I lick my lips. I can still taste Anderson on them. “I need to think and I need someone to take notes for me. Anderson are you coming?”

Anderson gives me a sly look under hooded lids. “Of course I’m coming-again.”

 As we leave the scene I hear Lestrade mutter, “What the hell is going on?”

I close the door and then focus my attention on Anderson. He looks less confident as I stare him down. He doesn’t break eye contact though.

“Well, Sherlock are we going back to Baker Street or do you want time alone to go to your mind palace?”

I think of the empty nursery back at the flat. I think of Mary’s dead eyes as they stare back at me and I think of you, John. I miss you. Anderson is still there. I don’t want to be alone.

I follow Anderson down to where his motorcycle is parked. He hands me a helmet and then hops aboard the bike. I grimace as I sit down on the seat. Anderson laughs as he turns to look at me. “I need to go by my place for a new pair of pants and a quick shower.”

“No need. I have pants and a shower at my flat,” I say and then I put on my helmet. It mutes the sounds of the city, would be it could mute the sounds of my brokenness. Only the syringe can take away my despair. “We must get back to Baker Street. I need a fix,” I think as we race through the streets.

After a brief shower back at the flat, I shoot up and collapse into the warm sheets of my bed. Anderson then takes his shower. The smell of cocaine wafts through the air as he stares down at me. I roll over in the sheets like a caterpillar spinning in its cocoon.

“I guess I’ll be going now,” Anderson whispers.

I open my mouth to insult him and then clamp my lips shut. I’m lonely and cold. I don’t want to be alone. “Join me?” I say and then turn over.

Anderson takes off all of his clothes except his pants and then slips in beside me. Like two orphans lost in a winter storm, we cling to each other and shiver in each other’s arms.

“Are you going to tell Lestrade about…?” My voice trails off as we both look over at the discarded syringe and rubber tie.

“No,” Anderson says as he runs his fingers through my curls.

I turn around and he positions me so that I lie in his arms like a child. “Anderson…. I’m not sure exactly what’s going on between the two of us, but my heart will always be John’s.”

Anderson’s haunted expression mirrors my own as he says, “It’s fine, Sherlock. When I speak I may lower the IQ of the whole street or the whole world for that matter, but I know that an addiction cannot love me back. It’s a temporary fix for an unrequited need.”

Without a word, I roll over and Anderson holds me in a chaste grasp. I can’t stop the tears that flow down my face.

“Sssh,” Anderson soothes. “John, will be back soon.”

“He’s changed since Mary’s death. He doesn’t want to come back to Baker Street. I turned my drug den into a bloody nursery for Christ’s sake. The blue lights to find my veins are gone. I painted the walls and bought a crib but the worst of it is that I can’t get Mary’s cold dead stare out of my mind. She’s dead and John left me alone to grieve.”  I am sobbing and shaking.

My body tightens as Anderson holds me. “I need another fix,” I gasp as the muscles in my neck feel as if they are going to snap.

“Sherlock, you can’t use anymore. Do you have any weed? It could help us both relax.” Anderson says as he holds me tight.

I nod and point to where a cracked teapot sits. Anderson glances at the teapot and then looks back at me. “Is this what I think it is?” He asks.

“It’s an ancient object that lay in neglect. I liberated it from a slow death.” I say as Anderson pulls out a joint. He brings it over to the bed while I reach over and grab my lighter from the floor. Anderson turns away as the sheet slips away. I cover myself in one haste motion and then we light up. After a few inhales we are giggling. I feel dizzy as I lay back in Anderson’s arms. He smooths my hair back from my forehead as he says, “Sherlock, you have to get clean. After all you have an intriguing case now. You shouldn’t have to use.”

I blow a puff of smoke in his face and laugh. “Sod off,” I say.

Anderson chuckles. “Ahh, Sherlock you are such a bad boy-my addiction.”

I stop laughing as Anderson’s fingers trail along my bare shoulders. “I cried for two weeks straight, after I thought you jumped.”

I grow still in his arms. “I thought you hated me. After all, didn’t you volunteer to search my flat for drugs?”

“Yes, but it wasn’t until I thought you were dead that I acknowledged my true feelings. I was put on administrative leave and spent time in a mental facility.”

I let him take my hand, his fingers warm under my touch. “A mental facility, you mean a nut house?”

Anderson smiles as he rubs my cheek with the back of his hand. “Yes, Sherlock, I tried to off myself.”

I turn to look at him, my interest is piqued. “How?”

Anderson looks at the ceiling and chuckles. “You are such a morbid beast. I tried to hang myself.”

I show him no mercy. “Are you telling me that you were even too stupid to kill yourself?”

Anderson begins to laugh. “Sherlock, you are such a prick. I tried to hang myself with your scarf. It was found at St. Bart’s, at the scene of…Well, you know. The material gave way and I fell to the ground. When I came to I was alone with your bloody scarf still wrapped around my neck. So, yes I was too stupid to commit suicide.”

“You’re not stupid. In fact, quite the contrary. You graduated in the top percentile of your class with an IQ of approximately 131, which means that you are gifted. Not a genius like me, but gifted.” I say as I yawn. “Now go to sleep.”

Anderson opens his mouth to speak but I hold two fingers to his lips before they can issue forth their oral message. “No talking, just sleep. Goodnight, Anderson.”

I wait for his answer but he is fast asleep in my arms. “Lightweight,” I think as I look down at his face with a reluctant fondness.


	23. Black Satin and Wet Nights

When I awake the next morning Anderson is gone. I am once again alone. The chiming of my phone stops me from grabbing a syringe. I answer the phone in a rage filled tone. “What?”

Lestrade answers me. “Jesus, I think you just took my hearing level down a few decibels.”

I smile. “Why, Lestrade your vocabulary is improving. Maybe we should have a spelling contest.”

“Sod, off Sherlock and get down here. We have another body with a missing toe. I’m texting you the address now,” Lestrade orders.

I arrive at the murder scene and am surprised when Anderson falls in step with me. “Did you sleep alright?” He whispers just before we duck under the yellow police tape.

Not sure of what to say I just reply, “Fine, and you?”

Anderson smirks as he says, “I would have slept better if you’d have allowed me to suck…”

My face reddens as I slither under the yellow slick ribbon. For a moment I think of the case that you and I first worked on together. Anderson stands before me in the same blue, garb you wore that night. The soft color brings out his eyes. He is not all together unattractive but he is not you. I miss you John. I am so immersed in my own thoughts that I don’t see a dip in the pavement. I hit the ground hard.

“Bloody, cobblestones,” I curse aloud as I attempt to stand up.

Anderson is by my side in an instant. He helps me up and leads me over to a low stone wall. He sucks in a breath of air as he inspects the results of my fall. My trousers are torn and bloody knees poke out of each leg.

“Oh, Sherlock, you’re hurt,” Anderson says as he gets up and then grabs a kit by his side. I don’t flinch as he cleans my wounds. I hold my legs apart a little farther than necessary to give up access to both knees. His breath comes in short gasps as he stares at my crotch. Though my actions were meant to tease, I end up feeling the heat as well. Anderson continues to stare and then in a quick movement he cups me. Then he jerks his hand away. “Jesus, Sherlock I’m sorry,” he stammers.

I bite down on my lower lip, appalled when a slight moan escapes. It isn’t the ringtone on my phone. Anderson’ breath is coming in shorter gasps now as he relishes the dissipating humidity my sweat has left on his palm. My eyes grow wide for it appears as if he is going to orgasm right before my eyes. I lick my lips and wobble to my feet, then sit back down as Donavan approaches.

“Well, what are you two doing?” Donavan askes as she looks from me to Anderson. She then raises an eyebrow as she observes my knees. “Well, judging from the state of your knees it looks as if you’ve been scrubbing Anderson’s floors.” Then like the cat that got the canary she stalks off.

Anderson and I look at each other and then laugh. He then holds out his hand to help me up. I take it aware that Donavan is still watching us. When Anderson is convinced that I can stand he asks for my phone.

“What do you need my phone for?” I ask as we limp closer to Donavan.

“Just give it to me,” Anderson demands.

My groin jumps a little at his commanding tone and then I hand over my phone without comment. Anderson takes my phone, has me unlock the screen and then sends a text. Afterwards he hands me the phone and then walks away. I look at the text. It is to John. I stare at the blue bubble where the message resides. It reads: When are you coming home?

There is no ‘love Sherlock’ just a simple question. Anderson is at the doorway to the flat. He turns to look at me. Though his expression is neutral, his eyes are full of pain. I have seen that expression many times. I have felt that expression many times, every time I look at you, dearest John. What a bastard cupid is.

Once inside the flat, Anderson and I go about our work in silence. “The victim is male, in his 30’s and appears to have choked on a piece of the roast beef he was eating,” Anderson states aloud as he encircles the body like a hound treeing its prey.

I watch him in appreciation for a moment or two and then start on a circular pattern of my own. Together we go around the corpse in concentric circles. Then we both start to speak at once.

I stop and stare at your lips, making sure you aren’t going to speak. Then I become engrossed by the hairs of your beard, the way they cling to your lips like twigs cling to a thatched roof. I wonder if they are soft. I decide then and there I prefer Anderson with a beard. I clear my throat in order to focus my thoughts. Then I sniff the corpse as I examine it more thoroughly. I frown as I stand up, wincing as I crash my bloodied knee against the table leg.

“I detect no poison, blunt trauma to head or neck, the larynx is engorged with roast beef but not crushed.” I state as Anderson watches me.

His pupils dilate, they are black as he says, “I guess he should have chewed his meat better so that he could swallow such a large mouthful.” 

I can’t take the pressure, so I begin to pace. “The fly in the ointment, the fly in the ointment,” I say aloud several times. Then I begin to pound the sides of my temples. Anderson reaches out and stills my agitated hands. Soon the rest of the team will enter the room. I can hear their approach. Just before they enter the room Anderson whispers into my ear, “Sherlock, let me take you to a gay bar.”

I swallow and then the noise of the investigation team swirls around me. Confused and conflicted, I give a quick report to Lestrade and then make my way outside. I squint as the morning sun pounds against my sensitive eyes in an unrelenting stream of light. I hate the sun and the whole bloody solar system.

“Sherlock, are you alright?” Lestrade asks in concern as he leads me to the shade.

“I’m fine,” I mutter and then stumble into a cab and back to Baker Street. I need a fix.

Once I get back to the flat, I push past a concerned Mrs. Hudson and make my way upstairs. I only have two balloons left. With shaky hands I heat up the bag, fill a syringe and plunge the needle in. I use a little more the usual so that I can sleep the day away. A few moments later my eyes close and my mind stills. It is sheer bliss.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?” A voice calls out to me and attempts to rouse me by shaking my shoulder.

I open my eyes and there stands Anderson. He has on a black button down silk shirt, tight black jeans, black leather boots and a black matching jacket. I am ashamed to admit that he looks hot. “You look ridiculous. Are you going on a date?” I ask in the most patronizing voice I can manage.

Anderson reaches out and pulls me to my feet. “Yes and so are you. We’re going to a gay bar, remember?”

I like the way his hands rest on my hips as he says, “Come on, Sherlock, you look fine. We’ve got a dinner reservation so come on.”

I stare at Anderson and then smile. I am going to make this the date from hell. I start first by grinding my pelvis into his back as we ride on his motorcycle through the rain soaked streets of London. Everything is wet, just the way I like it.


	24. Prey or Predator?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dearest John you are my top and I am your bottom, but the thought of screwing Anderson into the mattress until he begs for mercy appeals to me. I learned a great deal from Ms. Alder and I could have Anderson begging me to beat him to a jelly if I wished. I look into his face. His eyes are clouded with lust and something else. Hope. I don’t have to strip the layers of his soul. I know he is in love with me. Your residual of humanity makes me feel a twinge of guilt, John. I am frustrated for I had intended to torture Anderson like a prey animal. But his eyes are not to the side of his head. They are facing front like mine. I am confused. Who is the prey, myself or Anderson?

By the time we get to the restaurant my pants strain against my trousers. There is less room in the crotch area. I revel in the discomfort. Anderson is so undone that he parks the bike like a virgin rider, the tires wobble back and forth between his legs. I take the time to lean forward and nip his earlobe with my teeth.  He swings one leg over the seat, swaying to his feet.

“Anderson, you look pale.” I state, taking pleasure in the way he gasps for air. Dearest John you are my top and I am your bottom, but the thought of screwing Anderson into the mattress until he begs for mercy appeals to me. I learned a great deal from Ms. Alder and I could have Anderson begging me to beat him to a jelly if I wished. I look into his face. His eyes are clouded with lust and something else. Hope. I don’t have to strip the layers of his soul. I know he is in love with me. Your residual of humanity makes me feel a twinge of guilt, John. I am frustrated for I had intended to torture Anderson like a prey animal. But his eyes are not to the side of his head. They are facing front like mine. I am confused. Who is the prey, myself or Anderson?

We approach the front of the club. Anderson takes my hand and leads me around back. “I know you wouldn’t want to be seen with me so I arranged for us to go through the side door.” Anderson says smiling sideways at me. I blush, feeling the heat of his words.

We enter the club and as we do, Anderson releases my hand. I feel empty and free all at the same time. To keep myself centered I observe the inside of the establishment. The room is immersed in blue lights of differing hues. It is meant to simulate an underwater paradise. Ocean scenes are video mapped on the walls, as a bubble machine disperses tiny orbs of simulated oxygen into the air. It is quite spectacular. Anderson gauges my expression as we are led to our table.

Once we are seated he turns to me. “It’s wonderful isn’t it?”

I yawn. “Yes, if one likes cheap theatrics.”

Anderson takes shelter behind his menu. I pounce on him like a tiger. “I mean this place looks expensive and it’s not as if you’re going to get lucky. You’re a fool, Anderson.”

Anderson leans forward and plays with a lock of my hair. “Fools rush in, Sherlock, don’t they? I may be a fool but I am not a scared angel. I tread where I want and hope for the best.”

I open my mouth to reply, but clamp it shut when our waiter arrives. After placing our order, I lock eyes with Anderson’s. His pupils are expanded, making his eyes look black. Just like mine. We stare at each other until our drinks arrive. I purposely order a drink with a cherry in it. Anderson watches as I pluck the plump, processed red fruit into my mouth. His hands tremble as I make a show of licking it.

Knowing that I have his full attention, I slowly take the cherry out of my mouth letting it drag along my lower lip. I smirk when Anderson jumps as it makes a plopping sound coming out. My lips curve up in a wicked smile as I take the straw from my drink and attach the cherry to the end. I scoot over to Anderson smile again, plunging the sex toy I have made down his back, pausing past the band of his pants. Anderson swallows, his breathing is coming out in short pants. Without mercy, I pulse the cherry between his cheeks.

Anderson’s hips shoot off the seat. “Jesus, Sherlock, you’re going to make me come.”

I gasp, jerking the straw back. “Hmm, where is the cherry? I must find it.” Anderson’s face flushes first then it turns white as my fingers search for the cherry. “Ah, there it is,” I say as I pull the cherry back and pop it into my mouth.

Anderson doesn’t reply. I hold back my laughter when I see him squirming. With all the cunning of a true predator, I slip my shoe off and press the heel of my foot between his legs. It’s a good thing the music is loud for it covers Anderson’s whimpering. The muscles in his neck tighten then his body goes limp.

“Ah victory is so sweet,” I think as I grind my toes causing the moisture in Anderson’s pants to fan out to his trousers. I duck under the table to observe my handy work. I smile at the wet spot that winks back at me.

Feeling embarrassed Anderson shuts his legs. I pry them open, none too gently. I sit up and smell my hand. “Anderson, your scent is delightful.”

Anderson’s looks like a slaughtered pig, his eyes wide and rolling, his mouth open gasping for air. “It’s almost as if I’ve choked him.” I speculate on this for a moment or two, getting hard at the thought of his life in my hands.

When the waiter finally arrives with our food Anderson picks at his meal. I smile. I have won. I have rendered him speechless. I observe his pale white fingers as he plucks at some sort of fried stick things. His soulful blue eyes meet mine. When he realizes my attention is focused on him his face lights up in a smile. It’s as if the sun has finally decided to shine upon him after a long, cold winter. I am taken back as a twinge of emotion batters at the glacier of emotions I have kept bottled up inside me. I must not thaw, not here, not now.

“Hurry up and finish your food,” I snap surprised at the level of aggravation in the tone of my voice.

When we reach the bike, I grab the keys away from him. “I’m driving back to the flat,” I say.

Anderson hands them over without a fight. The ride back is dangerous and wild. I take risks. I expect Anderson to dig his hands into me, pinch my nipples or scream at me to stop. He does none of these things. His arms gently encircle my waist and he burrows his head into my neck, much like Redbeard would do at a trip to the vet. Against my will I am touched.

The bike skids to a stop and I wrench the helmet off my head and shove it into Anderson’s hands. He is sure to be angry now. He just looks at me, smiles and kisses the side of my cheek. “Thanks for going out with me tonight, Sherlock. I had a wonderful time.”

It is starting to rain and Anderson begins to shiver as the rain pelts through his thin jacket. He looks bedraggled, in need of protection. “Come in and get some tea,” I order.

Mrs. Hudson becomes all mother hen as soon as she sets eyes on Anderson’s state. “Sherlock, what have you been doing? Shame on you for treating your friends so.”

I start to refute her use of ‘friend’ then stop when I observe Anderson looking up at me. Mrs. Hudson puts a kettle on, speculatively watching us watch each other. She raises an eyebrow then leaves the room.

I wait for Anderson to finish his tea. As soon as the cup hits the saucer I speak. “Get upstairs, now.”

Without question Anderson does my bidding. In the bedroom I order him to strip. He stands before me naked. Why do I feel so vulnerable when he is the one shivering in front of me without a stitch of clothing?

I grab his chin. “To quote the immortal Mr. Spock, Anderson, ‘After a time, you may find that having is not the same as wanting. It is not logical, but it is often true.’ Now get ready it’s going to be a long night.”


	25. Whipped

Anderson doesn’t utter a word as I tie him up. He knows the rules. I grab him by the back of his ponytail. “What is your safe word, Anderson?” I hiss.

There are tears in his eyes while I am pulling his hair. He doesn’t look away from me. A smile twitches at the corner of his lips and he says, “I.Q.”

“What?” I ask jerking his head back.

“I.Q.” He repeats in a firm voice.

I am taken back by his obvious defiance. “First, we’ll start with the riding crop. Miss Alder taught me well. You’re in for a real treat, Anderson.”

I draw the crop back to my left ear and strike Anderson’s ass checks a few times, then I aim higher. Other than a sharp intake of breath, he doesn’t utter a sound. I can see his rib cage struggling to expand. His breath is coming in short gasps.

“Are you finding it difficult to breathe?” I ask in a mocking tone. No sound. I strike him again and again. I lose myself in the violence of it all. Mary is gone-whack. John is gone-whack. I am alone-whack. I need a fix-whack. I want to stop but he won’t utter the safe word. “Fuck, Anderson have you forgotten your safe word?” No answer. I raise his head to look at me and I am the one to gasp. Anderson looks at me with red rimmed eyes. His forehead is beaded with sweat. He looks miserable and in pain. “Anderson, let me help you. Recant. Give me your safe word.”

He bites his lip and looks down. I throw the crop down. I am ready to move on. I grab a plug and a blindfold, then I turn towards Anderson. He is shivering uncontrollably. I watch him in fascination for a few moments. I have pushed him beyond his limits but he won’t recant.

I inspect my handiwork. He will be bruised tomorrow. I sit down on the edge of the bed, defeated. I don’t have the stomach for this. Approaching Anderson I untie the ropes, then I help him to the bed. He lays against my chest like the body of a limp martyr in an Italian painting. Except I am the master and Anderson’s brokenness is my art. I look at him. “Have you no self-respect, Anderson?”  I ask, my voice dripping with distain.

He looks up at me and says, “No Sherlock, not when it comes to you.”

I look at him for so long that my peripheral vision blacks out. With just a subtle shift of my hips his pelvis bumps up against my side. He trembles and closes his eyes when I tilt his head back. My lips are on his, my tongue slips inside his warm oral cavity. I am lost. We both explore, panting then we break apart. I moan when he palms my groin.

“Sherlock, may I undo your pants?” Anderson asks as if it is teatime and wants to know whether I like cream or sugar.

I nod. When I am finally naked, I feel like the seduced instead of the seducer. Anderson runs his hands along my body. “God, Sherlock you are so beautiful. So, smooth, so warm, so sensitive, so intelligent….”

I am losing the upper hand. “Stop, with all this emotional foreplay. I don’t need you to tell me these things. Oh, and I only bottom for John so prepare to be fucked hard and fast because that’s how he likes it.” My hands shake as I grab a condom and a packet of lube. Anderson lays quietly beneath me. Waiting. “You’re only getting enough prep so that you don’t scream loud enough to wake the whole neighborhood. Got it?”

He doesn’t beg me to be gentle, he just prepares by opening his legs further apart. I look into his wide blue eyes and ease into him. I am all prepared for an all-out assault. I surprise myself and him when I deliver what he craves, gentleness. I tell myself I am only being gentle so that I can watch him slowly unravel, but I find my body enjoys the slow thrusting movements just as much as Anderson does. Then it’s time. He tenses beneath me, grabs my forearms, the skin on his neck flushes, his body tightens all around me.

“Sherlock, I’m going to come,” he shouts out.

I want to yell back that his powers of observation are astounding but I am too far gone. When Anderson finally shoots his load, I grit my teeth. It’s been too long since I’ve had sex, for it almost hurts to come. My body takes over and my thoughts become numb. I shoot my load into the condom, shaking afterwards like a frightened animal. Anderson’s arms enfold about me. It’s his gentle cradling that undoes me and I weep, turning my head away so that he can’t see.

Anderson takes my face and twists it towards him, then without a word he licks away each tear. Words desert me. This action undoes me more than a kiss. He smiles and looks at me, memorizing each detail. I am like a work of art to him. His eyes rove over my body in awe. I lay back and let him take his visual fill. He gasps. His hands shake. His shoulders droop. His facial features twist in despair. When he finally speaks, I almost jump out of my skin. “Thank you, Sherlock for everything.” I move to get up. “No, stay in bed. You look beautiful. I’m…um going to get a shower and leave.”

I look up at him. “You can stay if you like.”

His eyes spark with hope, then it is doused. “Good one, Sherlock you really had me going there. After all, one offs don’t spend the night. Do they?”

“No, they don’t.” I answer. There is no reply. Anderson is gone and I feel worse than ever. Time for the syringe.

***

I awake to my phone ringing. I sigh, untangle the rubber tie around my arm and answer the phone. It’s Lestrade.

“Well, we’ve got another one. This time it’s a woman,” Lestrade says and my mind goes to work. “Sherlock?”

“Yes, I’m here, which is more than I can say for you. It’s the fourth toe that is missing, correct?” I ask.

“Bloody hell. How did you know that?” Lestrade shouts.

I smile. “I’ll be there in a minute to help you muddle through. Oh, by the way, she’s also a vegetarian.”

“Bloody hell,” Lestrade swears again.

I smile again and hang up. This is going to be fun.

I shower, get dressed and hurry past Mrs. Hudson. “Sherlock, are you alright?”

I pat her on each shoulder. “Yes, I’m fine. It’s going to be a wonderful day. There’s been another dismemberment.”

Mrs. Hudson’s face crinkles up. “Oh, Sherlock, it’s not decent.”

I blow her a kiss. “Who cares about decent?” I say. Then I turn around, off to the scene of the crime. My shelter. My sanctuary.

The scene is being secured when I jump out of a cab and run upstairs to the victim’s flat. The smell of death and patchouli assails my nostrils when I open the door. Lestrade motions me over to where the victim lays.

I look around the room. “Where is Anderson?” I ask.

Lestrade frowns. “What do you care? The man annoys you by just breathing.”

“Lestrade, shut up. Where is he?” I ask in a harsh tone. Too harsh, mustn’t show emotion.

Unaware of my internal conflict Lestrade answers, “He’s on medical leave. He got banged up pretty bad last night. He’s got a couple of busted ribs. Looks like hell, but other than that he appears to be okay. Poor bastard, is most likely going to have to go for a psyche reevaluation though, given his past history.”

I feel cold all over. The only thing that keeps me from screaming is the sound of a text message. I read it and smile. “John’s coming home,” I say aloud. All else fades away, for you dearest John are coming home.


	26. Painful Chords

I read the message again and again. John will be home in two weeks. I stand outside on the side walk and take a deep breath. The London air is crisper, the traffic less noisy, the world is right again. John. A cab whooshes by, making the tails of my coat flutter in its wake. Once again a heaviness settles over me. _Anderson. I need to check on him. Why? Because I care? Certainly not. I’m just curious to inspect the damage that I inflicted on him._ These thoughts and others swirl around in my mind. I flag down a cab to take me to Anderson’s flat.

When the cab stops in front of a drab building. I double check the address. It’s correct. I pay the cabbie and proceed towards the grey structure. It is oppressive, just one step above government housing and not much else. I trudge up the stairs to Anderson’s flat. The smell of curry assails my nostrils, while a pair of children run down the halls, oblivious to their poverty. I envy them. Even as a child I never knew such peace and tranquility. I look away, knocking on the door. No answer. I knock again. After a few repetitions of this action, I sigh. I then look around me and pull out my picks.

A few metallic clicks latter and I am in Anderson’s flat. I expect the inside to be as dismal as the outside and I am surprised when it is not. Though the décor is sparse, the place is clean. I smirk, looking at the freshly polished kitchen floors.

“My ex took everything except my piano,” Anderson says behind me.

I whirl around. “Anderson.” He is standing there in his pants, his chest bare, a bandage around his ribcage.

“Sherlock, what are you doing here and how did you get in?” He asks, then rubs his eyes in slow motion, wrought with fatigue.

I wince, unsure of my motives. “I picked the lock. This place has an appalling lack of security.”

Anderson’s lips turn up into a tentative smile. “Sherlock, what are you doing here?”

I don’t want to answer him. It will give him control. “So, you play piano, any good?”

Without a word Anderson walks over and sits on the bench. His eyes take on a faraway look. He then looks down and begins to play, the Adagio from Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto. Each note breaks through my emotional barriers. His playing is wondrous. My eyes fill with tears. I hear Beethoven, but I see John, I see Mary, I see Redbeard, I see the Woman, I see everything I have loved and or lost. I want to tell him to stop, but I am transfixed by the beauty and pain of the music. I am mute, rendered powerless, unable to disarm him with sarcasm or cruelty. I want to shout that he is the cruel one for making me feel, but I cannot. I have allowed him to get under my skin, the fly in the genius of my ointment.

Sensing my discomfort, he stops playing. I want to beg him to continue, but I don’t. I just stand there. I am beaten. Without a word Anderson has reduced me to ashes. He has burned me. My gaze never wavers from his face, his hands, and his back, his scarred and beaten back.

He frowns. “Well, that’s it. I suppose.”

“You didn’t finish,” I say.

He gives me a sad lopsided smile. “Does it matter…Sherlock?”

I am furious. What kind of game is he playing? “Yes, it matters, or don’t you know the rest of the piece?”

He looks away. He doesn’t answer me. I find his silence unnerving. Then he pulls the piano cover over the keys. Its clamping sound reminds me of a coffin lid closing. His head is still bowed. “Sherlock, why are you here?”

I storm over to where he is sitting, and I pull a tin of salve from my pocket. “I came to give you this,” I say, holding it out to him.

He takes it and smiles. “Thank you, Sherlock, but how am I supposed to put it on?”

I take a deep breath when I look down at his bruised white skin. He is not a corpse. Why did I beat him so? I struggle to maintain control. “I will do it.” I answer.

He looks up at me. “Are you sure?”

I nod. “Take off the bandage around your ribs.”

He does so. The bandage unravels and falls to the ground. I approach him, untwist the lid, and begin to massage the ointment into his lacerated skin. He winces but does not cry out when my fingers touch his wounds, wounds that I created. When I am through, I back away. “Anderson…I’m sorry about last night.”

Anderson twists around on the bench so that he is facing me. His elbows rest on the piano lid, his legs spread slightly in order to maintain his balance. My mouth begins to water. I want to snake my hand up his pants until he thickens in my grasp. I kneel before him as if to confess my sins. “You would do anything for me wouldn’t you?” I ask, then I reach for him.

“Yes.” He answers, shivering when my fingers arrive at their destination.

“Would you lie for me?” I ask, my voice low, full of lust.

“Yes, Sherlock, I already have.”

“When?”

“When we searched your flat for drugs. I found two balloons. I didn’t tell anyone. I just stuffed them into my pocket.”

I look at him with new respect. “Do you still have them?”

“No, I destroyed them.”

I sigh. “Too bad, next time think it through. We could have had mind-blowing sex after getting high.”

Anderson doesn’t answer when my fingers resume their crawling. His head falls back against the piano. I am getting off just watching him. “I’m going to jerk you off quick.” I say.

He nods, pulsing into my palm. Then he huffs a few time, arches his hips, and shoots into my hand, whimpering when I mouth the front of his pants. I pull them down. I have to taste. In between licks, I ask him one more question. “Anderson, would you kill for me?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

I stop and look up at him, my lips are swollen and moist. I lick the corners, then pull him close. His eyes are wide full of pride and guilt. “You, it’s you. You’re the toe slasher.” I whisper.

He laughs. “Very good you are a proper genius.”

His answer sends a jolt of warmth to my groin. I pick him up. “Where’s the bedroom?” I ask in a raspy voice. He gestures with his head and I carry him. I lay him on the bed, then I strip off my trousers and pants. I lay down on the bed. We are facing each other. I grind my groin into his, resuming my interrogation. “I know you didn’t kill them, they all died of natural causes. Tell me how you arrived at the scene before anyone else.”

Anderson groans and pushes against me. “I hacked into dispatch and arrived there first, then I cut their toes off.”

I keep him on his side by holding his arms in a firm grasp. I don’t want him to further injure his back. “Fuck, Anderson this turns me on. Why did you do it, to impress me?”

The friction between us is unbearable and I am surprised he can answer. “I did it…so you…wouldn’t be…oh god, bored!” We then both shoot our loads within a few seconds of each other.

We are both breathing hard. I am the first to speak. “Anderson, I am impressed. I really am, you are so clever. I underestimated you.”

He basks in my compliment. I frown. It’s time to let him down. “Anderson, John is coming back.”

He looks away and nods. “I’m happy for you, Sherlock.”

I roll away from him. “Is that all you can say?”

He pulls his knees up to his chest. “What do you want me to say?”

“That you will miss me. I don’t know, something.” My voice trails off.

He looks at me his eyes clearing of lust. “I will miss you, Sherlock.”

I pull on my pants and trousers. I am angry and I don’t know why. “Good-bye, Anderson,” I say, then leave, wondering why hours later I still can’t dispel the look in his eyes when I left, or the last lingering notes of the Adagio from Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto.


	27. "I Don't Understand."

You, dearest John are coming home today. It is a marvel that I have survived until this moment. A turn of the key in the lock. I close my eyes. I know it’s you by the way the door closes. Mrs. Hudson is calling, calling for me to come down. I don’t trust myself to walk navigate the stairs. I am shaking.

“I’m busy,” I shout.

“Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson chides.

I make my way to the sitting room, plop down in my chair and wait, grinding my feet into the unwilling nap of the rug. My breathing is coming in ragged gulps. I struggle to control it. Then you are there and in your arms is a child. I am prepared to hate it for keeping you away from me so long, then she turns her golden haired head towards me. The world stops. She is beautiful. She is Mary. She is you. Her blue eyes cut through my defenses, straight to my heart. You smile. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

I nod, then you come forward and hold me in your arms, careful not to squish the child between us. Her small fingers curl around the buttons on my coat. I want to weep, but I don’t. My arms and legs begin to tremble betraying me. I am not invincible. When you release me I feel woozy. _Dear god, I’m going to faint._

You hand the baby over to Mrs. Hudson, introducing her as Alice. She makes small squeaking sounds but is otherwise good when Mrs. Hudson carries her away. After they have left the room you face me. The strain of the past few months have been too much for me and I collapse in your arms. You lower me to the couch, holding me while I tremble in your arms. I am furious with myself. I’m not a virgin bride on her wedding night. I wrench free of your grasp and stand up. The room swirls around me but I ignore the sensation. “John, I’m glad you’re home and baby Alice is quite lovely. You must be tired. I’m going up.” I don’t make eye contact. I just turn and run up the stairs.

“Sherlock, come back here.”

I take the stairs two at a time, stumbling to get away from you. I move towards my secret room, then remember at the last moment that it is now a nursery. You mustn’t see. You don’t want to live with me and I won’t have you laughing at me. Your words come back to me, ‘what sane person brings a baby to live at Baker Street?’

“Sherlock, I know where you’re going.” I fling open the door, moving to shut it. You are too fast for me. “I know what happens in this room. I’m not home more than 5 minutes and you are using…” Your voice trails off when you observe the beauty of Alice’s room. I cower behind the bassinet. I hate you for seeing me like this. I must hurt you as you have hurt me.

“Sherlock, this is beautiful. Is this for Alice?”

“No, it’s my drug den. I love shooting up in a room filled with baby things.” Feeling like an idiot I crawl past you, but you are too quick for me. You grab me by the collar, straddling me. “Let me go, you fool.”

“No.” Then you pin me to the ground. I turn away but you force me to look at you. “Oh god, Sherlock, I’ve missed you.” I rest my head on your shoulder, while we both weep. “Sherlock…”

“John, you left me alone. You let me grieve.” I hang my head I deserve it.

“Sherlock, you know I had to get away, then I found out about baby Alice and it took a while to get things sorted out.”

I pull my knees up to my chest. How can I shrink away when you won’t let me? “John, it’s good to see you, but things are different now. You have a baby and I no longer fit into your lifestyle. It’s too late for us. I’ll be okay, just leave.”

You throw your hands up into the air. “Sherlock, we need to talk. I love you and I have no intention of leaving you. The room you decorated for Alice is beautiful.”

I look over at you and sniff. “I decorated and painted the walls myself.”

You soothe your hand over my curls. “Sherlock, you are so gifted. I love you so much. We’ll talk about the living arrangements. I’m sure we can work something out.”

I shake my head. “You don’t understand. I’m not worthy of your attention.”

You pound your fist on the wooden floors, causing the solar system mobile above Alice’s bed to shake. “Why do you always have to be so difficult?”

“John, I cheated on you with Anderson.”

“What?”

“I cheated on you with Anderson.”

You don’t say a word, then you get up, holding out your hand. I take it, letting you pull me to my feet. I face you. “You’ll be going then?” I ask.

I expect your eyes to be full of hate and anger. They aren’t. “Sherlock, you just don’t get it do you?”

And for the first time in my life I look at you and say, “No, I don’t understand.”

You reach up and touch my forehead. “You feel like you’ve got a fever. No doubt you’ve been working yourself up about all this. Let’s get you to bed and we’ll talk about this in the morning.”

“You’re not leaving?”

Your eyes grow large, then you smirk. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do, Sherlock. We’ll deal with this together.”

You lead me to bed. I allow you to undress me. Your fingers undo each button on my shirt, then my trousers, then your hands linger at the waistband of my pants. I take a deep breath, but we both know you won’t go further. I lay in your arms, shivering until you pull the blankets over us. I am safe in my John cocoon. I smile when I feel your erection pushing against my thigh. _Ummm, tomorrow we can make up. I will let you take me anyway you want Dearest John._ Visions of carnal pursuits dance in my head. The indecency of them relaxes me and I close my eyes, hoping they will keep the darkness at bay.

The next morning, my body aches and my head pounds. You breeze into the room, the regurgitation from Alice’s breakfast are spattered in dots all over your shirt. I smile. You are adorable, an adorable father. I move to get up but you push me back into bed.

“Oh, no you don’t. You have flu, now rest, Doctor’s orders.”

“So, you’re staying here at Baker Street?”

You sigh, “For now yes. When you’ve recovered, and start sleuthing again I’ll have to revisit the issue.”

I look down, wondering if I can remain sick forever. You approach me, taking my chin between your fingers. “God, you look a mess but are still so beautiful.”

I scoot to the side, making room for you. You kiss my forehead, then hold me in your arms until I drift off to sleep. My last thoughts are, _not even my mother could soothe me so. You make me right John Watson. Whatever will I do if you leave me? I would rather die now with you by my side than recover without you…John…John, my adorable fly in the ointment._


	28. The Prospect of Three

I open my eyes. Though I am feeling better, the burden of the conversation I must have with you weighs heavily upon me. What I wouldn’t do for a fix. Just something, anything to take the edge off.

“Sherlock?” Your voice calls to me. “Sherlock, I see you’re feeling better. I’ve brought up some tea and biscuits.”

I nod, not meeting your eyes. My hand shakes when I reach for the fragile looking tea cup. I look up at you and tears form in my eyes. “John, I….”

You sit down next to me on the bed. “Sherlock, let’s not talk about this now.” I shake my head, then take a bite of biscuit, letting the taste of it fill my mouth. “Jesus, you make tea and biscuits so sexy.”

I give you a tentative smile. “John, I want to talk about this now.” My green eyes meet your blue ones. You remain silent until I am finished telling you about Anderson. I wait for you to speak. When you finally do, I jump.

“Sherlock, it sounds as if you care for Anderson.”

“What? Seriously, Anderson? He’s a dolt an idiot, not worthy of my attention. How can you say such things? I was just bored, that’s it, nothing more.”

You stroke my arm with your fingertips, until chill bumps raise the hair, making my flesh crawl with desire, like a craving. “Sherlock, you are a multi-faceted creature. I think we need to explore the possibility that the number three works for you.”

I sit up. “What do you mean?”

You smirk. “Sherlock, don’t play dumb on my account. The sexual tension between us was almost unbearable until Mary. It was she that smoothed things out for us. Everything clicked when we were all together.” When I don’t answer, you continue. “All I’m saying is that I’m open to it, if it’s something you want to try.”

“Are you saying you want a three way with Anderson?”

You put both palms on the side of my face. “Sherlock, I’m not suggesting a tawdry encounter with Anderson as our play thing. I’m suggesting a relationship between the three of us.” I am stunned. You laugh. “Sherlock, I do believe you are speechless. There is a lot to consider. Are the three of us compatible and of course Alice must come first. I want her to have a stable home environment.”

I run my mouth along your shoulder. “John….” Your name comes out as half moan, half whisper.

***

We fall into a routine, you, I and Alice. Though I have no wish to change nappies and such, watching baby Alice fascinates me, her small fingers, toes, the way she smiles, a combination of you and Mary. We haven’t discussed the Anderson Proposal since you brought it up last week. I am irritable. I need a case. I need a fix, or at the very least a cigarette. Perhaps I can get you back into bed. I am just about to propose this very suggestion when my phone rings. It’s Lestrade.

“Sherlock, I need you to get down here ASAP. There’s been another machete killing.”

After I get instructions on where the crime scene is located, I end the call without saying goodbye. “John, can you have Mrs. Hudson watch Alice? I think we may have a case. Isn’t it glorious?”

You pick up baby Alice from her playpen and ask, “What’s so glorious about this one?”

I rub my hands together. “It involves a machete.”

“You are positively macabre,” you reply, handing off Alice to Mrs. Hudson.

Mrs. Hudson smiles, then looks sternly at both of us. “Now I’ll look after Alice, but just this once. Remember, I’m your landlady, not your babysitter.”

You smile. “Thanks Mrs. Hudson, I am looking into getting a nanny for Alice, but it’s going to be a difficult match.”

Mrs. Hudson talks baby talk to Alice, then pauses. “Who wouldn’t want to watch, Alice, she’s an angel.”

You roll your eyes in my direction. “It’s not her I’m worried about, it’s him.”

Mrs. Hudson looks pensive. “Yes, he does take a bit of getting used to.”

***

I go over the crime scene, with you trailing in my wake. Anderson, stays hunched over in the corner, picking at some organic material that is stuck to the wall. He doesn’t look up when I pass him. I ignore him and squat down to examine the machete. _Its ornate, suggesting that it is special to the owner. I take a closer look. Hmm interesting.”_ It appears that this machete has a twin, see the marking on the handle? It indicates that this weapon is one from a set of two.” I say aloud.

Lestrade strolls over and examines the weapon. “So, where’s the other one?”

I look around at the corpse, noting the defensive wounds on his arms. “The victim was definitely attached with two machetes. See the marks on his arms and how they have different striations? They would seem to indicate that the body was struck with simultaneous blows like this.” I then demonstrate with my imaginary pair of machete.

Lestrade watches my performance, then sighs. “So, where is the other machete?”

I back track the blood spray patterns from the corpse to where the weapon lies, then back again. “See this trail of blood? It indicates that another weapon was drug off in this direction.” I smile. I am on the hunt.

“Sherlock, wait, that area hasn’t been secured yet.”

I ignore Lestrade and forge ahead. I push past two uniformed police offers, ready to bay like a hound. I am so intent on my quarry that I fail to notice the crazed figure that charges towards me, screaming obscenities. My intellect is no match against the fight or flight adrenaline that causes my body to freeze in place. I wait for the cutting blow and am surprised when another figure rushes forward, throwing me to the ground. Who has taken my place with the grim reaper? A shot rings out and my would-be assailant drops, letting his machete clatter to the floor.

Anderson lays at my feet, blood pouring from a gash in his abdomen. He is going to bleed out.

“Anderson, “I shout crawling towards him. He is shaking but he still manages to smile up at me. I know that look. It’s death. “No, Anderson hang on. John, get over here. Help me.”

You are by his side in an instant. Your face is grim, while you work to stem the flow of blood.

I take Anderson’s hand. “Anderson, hang on, John’s here, he’ll make everything right.”

Anderson shakes his head. “Sherlock…..,” my name comes out in a hiss.

“Fuck,” you swear, then begin resuscitation.

I am still holding Anderson’s hand. “Anderson, stay with us. Phillip, please don’t leave. We’ll miss you. I’ll miss you.” Then the room quiets and my throat swells while the cacophony of an approaching siren grows closer.


	29. All Notes End

I huddle in a cold waiting room, along with Lestrade. I look down at the ground, pulling my coat around my blood-soaked shirt. His blood, my shirt. The stiffness of the material scratches against my skin, like rats working to claw their way free from a trap. _Trap. I’m trapped. I have allowed myself to feel and I am now reaping the whirlwind._ Lestrade pats my shoulder. I am grateful that he doesn’t offer ineffective platitudes.

I surprise myself when I speak first. “He sacrificed himself for me. Everyone does that at some point, don’t they? Be the hero. Save Sherlock. I abused him in every sense of the word and now he is going to die.”

Lestrade takes a sip of his coffee. “Let’s just wait for the Doctor, shall we?”

I nod, dreading to be left alone with my thoughts. _I am hateful and spiteful. I deserve to be left alone. Anderson, oh god, Anderson, what hurt most the machete as it pierced your abdomen or me as I pierced your heart?_

“Sherlock, Sherlock can you hear me? Are you okay?”

I look at you, dearest John, you are sitting on your haunches in front of me. One hand is placed on my knee, the other on my arm. I smile at you, then look down at the floor, losing myself in the debris on the linoleum, a crumb from a child’s biscuit, a strand of hair, a drop of coffee, lint, a facial tissue, small scraps of paper, mucus, a spot of blood. The spot of blood grows, threatening to swallow me in its gigantic sink hole. The smell of copper makes me gag.

You squeeze my hand. “Sherlock, wherever you are come back and look at me.”

I give you nothing, because I am a taker.

“Sherlock, if you look at me and pay attention I will play that little game you’ve been wanting to try.”

My whole body snaps to attention, ready to move on. “The one with the handcuffs, the plug, the crop and the honey?” You laugh when I lick my lips.

“Yes, the very one.”

Lestrade shifts in the chair next to us. “Oh nice. I’m going to leave you two to sort this out, call me when you hear news.”

You look away from my dilated eyes and turn to Lestrade. “Anderson’s in surgery now. He’s strong so I’m sure he’ll pull through.”

“But you don’t know.” My voice sounds loud. It matches the brightness of the room.

You slide into the chair that Lestrade has just vacated. I lean against your shoulder. “Sherlock, close your eyes and try to relax.”

“I know what would help me relax.”

You chuckle. “Well, I don’t fancy getting arrested for giving you a hand job in public.”

I nibble at your neck. “You could say it’s an emergency prostate exam.” Then I take a deep breath. _You have pulled from my tortuous thoughts once again._ I look at you. My focus comes back, but with it so does the battlefield. I close my eyes, allowing the analytical side of my brain to squelch the sights and sounds that have no bearing on the situation. We sit together in silence, letting the fear and pain of the environment wash over us. It’s you a me against the world and we will prevail.

When you shake me awake, I have no idea how long I’ve been asleep. “You’re just like Redbeard,” I murmur, “you can make me relax and fall asleep anywhere.”

“Fine, you owe me a bone when we get home.” Then you pat me on the leg and walk over to where a grim looking surgeon stands waiting.

I watch you converse, then I breathe a sigh of relief. I know from your body language that Anderson made it through surgery. Still, I want to hear the words from your lips. You come to me. _You are the sun of my solar system. Without you knowing it, everything revolves around you John Watson._

“He’s made it through the surgery, but he isn’t awake yet. I think you should go in and sit with him. I will call Lestrade.”

I follow the surgeon to the nurses’ station, where I am then directed to Anderson’s room. I take a deep breath before I open the door. He looks so small and pale, too pale. I walk over and my mouth salivates when I notice the strength of his Morphine IV drip. _Lucky bastard._

I stand in silence at the end of his bed. I read his chart, wincing at the extent of the injuries. You will be in pain for a while, you will have to wear a temporary colostomy bag, not to mention the psychological effects of such an attack and it’s all my fault. _Fuck, what a piece of shit I am._

I sink down in a chair next to the bed, putting my head in my hands. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. There is no answer, only the beeping of hospital equipment. _I swear I can hear each drop of morphine when it filters through the line. I want some. I…_

A nurse breezes into the room, not knowing how close I came to jerking the IV out of Anderson’s arm and sticking it into my own. “You’ll have to leave now.” Then she bustles me out and I stand out in the hall, like a refugee waiting for someone to claim me.

It is only after you and I are on the way home that I realize that I didn’t say anything to Anderson. _I didn’t encourage him to come back to us. I just stood there like a mute statue. I have failed again._

By the time, we arrive at Baker Street, I am in a foul mood, knowing that a cloud of darkness is coming, I burst forth from the cab, rush past Mrs. Hudson and make my way towards my violin. _The Bach Chaconne in D Minor will do nicely._ I put the instrument to my chin, tune it, then begin to play the slashing chords, like a knife they cut through to the morrow of my being. _I am just as wounded as Anderson. My soul bleeds. Though some assume I feel nothing, I actually feel too much. I descend into mental torment. Hell. No can save me from this despair. John Watson, he can. I feel pain though I don’t show it, but he knows, John Watson knows and yet my heart beats in terror. I am afraid one day I will sink into oblivion and never return. No one to rescue me. A soul past redemption, haunted by past failures and future dilemmas. What if my intellect fails? What then? What then? No, someone stop this free-floating anxiety._ Then I focus on the gentle notes of the Chaconne, tears run down my face, while I wallow in the pain. When the volume of the piece swells into forte I bite my lip until it bleeds. I taste blood and tears. I feel bereft, knowing the piece is nearing its climax and though I play it again, it will never be like this performance. Each fingering and bow stroke like a snowflake, pitch perfect, yet no two alike. All musical works have a finale, all notes end, all pieces fade until the last tone ceases to vibrate.


	30. Too Much at Stake

I haven’t spoken to Anderson since the accident. You dearest John, have visited him quite often. He is to be released from hospital today. I stand just outside his room, listening to the myriad of home care instructions the doctor is giving to you. _God, what fools we all are. Protecting what doesn’t need to be protected, giving up what is most scared life, hope, happiness._

“So, do we need to send a home care nurse round to look after him?” the doctor’s voice intones.

“Nope, Sherlock and I will take him home with us.” You answer.

Then Anderson speaks. “Sherlock, is here?”

“Yeah, he’s hiding around the corner. Sherlock, you can come out now.”

I hold on to the door jam, then slide around the corner. I look at Anderson. _God, he looks awful. He is thin, and gaunt, the skin of his face is stretched over his skeletal structure like a tarp, which make the color of his eyes stand out. They are so blue, like a newborn’s._ I clear my throat. “Hi, Anderson.”

You sigh. “Come on Sherlock, you can do better than that.”

I fidget, then Anderson speaks. “It’s alright he doesn’t have to say anything.”

You stand between us. “Yes, he does. He needs to learn how to be a decent human being. Sherlock, say something nice.”

I clear my throat. “Umm, your eyes look really blue and if you drape your blanket like this,” I then rearrange the blanket on his lap, “no one will see the colostomy bag.”

You put one hand over your face. “Oh god, Sherlock, you really don’t have a clue, do you?”

Confusion settles over me, like it always does in these types of situations. “What, no good?”

Anderson smiles. “It was fine, Sherlock just fine.”

We go through the final check out process, then we wheel Anderson out to the curb and wait for a cab. The cab arrives and while we help Anderson in, he clenches his jaw in pain. A sheen of perspiration gathers on his upper lip. You ease him into the seat, but I can tell that the ride is going to be a painful one for him. Once again guilt washes over me.

By the time, we reach Baker Street, Anderson’s lips are clenched between his front teeth in a grimace of pain. You pay the cabbie, then exit, extending your hand to him. He takes it, allowing you to pull him to his feet. When I come around, he looks up at me. He is done in. Mrs. Hudson opens the door, clucking at us like a mother hen.

“Oh Sherlock, he looks so bad.”

You put her at ease. “It’s alright, Mrs. Hudson, we’ll take care of him.”

Anderson leans against me, looking up at the narrow staircase in dread. Without a word, I sweep him up in my arms and carry him up to your old room, then deposit him on the bed. He looks up at me, then smiles. “Thanks.”

I smooth a strand of hair out of his eyes. “Thank you, Anderson.” I stare at him, hoping that my glance will convey more than my simple ‘thank you’ has.

Anderson takes my wrist between his fingers. “It was my pleasure, Sherlock,” he whispers.

My eyes narrow and I jerk free from his grasp. “Are you taking my pulse?”

Anderson doesn’t answer. He just looks up at me with a coy smile. I hear your laughter from the doorway. “Oh Sherlock, he got you good, but no matter I’m a doctor and I could tell your pulse was racing from here.”

You and Anderson laugh together. I look from one of you to the other, not sure if I should join in or not. A gasp from the bed relieves me of a decision. “God, please don’t make me laugh any more. It hurts.”

You are by his side in an instant, the doctor, the friend, the lover. I note the curve of your back when you bend over him. Your shirt comes untucked revealing a bit of skin. I take a deep breath, resisting the urge to stroke myself. _My hot doctor._

“It’s time for you to take another pain pill. You want me to get some biscuits to swallow it down with?” you ask.

“Yes, please,” Anderson and I both answer in unison.

You look over at me in exasperation. “I’ll be right back.” Then you look back at me, taking Anderson’ bottle of pills with you. After you leave the room Anderson looks at me.

“You already palmed one, didn’t you?”

I look over at Anderson in mock outrage. “Of course, not.”

“Come over here and show me your hands.”

I slink over to his bedside, resting my upper thighs near his head, then I hold out one hand and then the other. They are both empty. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, I must have been mistaken.”

I nod then go to over to a chair, flopping down in it with one leg hooked over the arm. My legs are spread wide and I lean my head back and breathe with my mouth open. You come into the room with tea and biscuits, knock my leg off the arm, then turn to Anderson.

“Never mind him, he’s clueing for fucks, the little tramp.”

Anderson smirks, then takes the pill you offer him. When your back is turned, I open my mouth, curling my tongue around a little white pill, flicking the tip, then swallowing it with a sip of tea. A stream of liquid runs down my chin, and I take out a handkerchief, making a show of wiping it clean.

After you are done seeing to Anderson, you turn to me. “Alright you, I’m going to check his sutures and bag. You can leave now and give us some privacy.”

I stand up, relishing the wave of dizziness that overcomes me. _Chewing that pill was disgusting, but god it’s worth it. Hmm, I feel good._ I walk over and watch while you unbutton Anderson’s shirt. “I want to watch.”

You look at me. “You are a little wretch. I suppose you are going to get turned on by a colostomy bag?”

I look down and scuff the floor with the tip of my shoe. “Maybe, but it’s mainly in the interest of science.”

“Sure, it is. Anderson, do you mind if he watches while I look you over?”

Anderson shakes his head. “No, that’s fine.”

I peer over your shoulder and I almost loose it when I look at the jagged scar that disfigures Anderson’s abdomen. “That’s a wicked looking wound.”

You look at me, your eyes are serious. “Yes, Sherlock it is.”

My stomach churns. _I should have had a biscuit. I feel like I’m going to puke._

You look at me. “Sherlock, you don’t look so well. Go have a lie down in our room.”

I nod then leave. Once inside our room, my skin starts to crawl and itch. _I shouldn’t have taken that pill._ I rummage around in our drawers, looking for a bottle of aloe vera gel. By the time, I find it, I feel like I’m on fire. I strip off my clothes, then slather the gel on. Anxiety claws at me. _I’d better take a Benadryl to combat this itching._

You come into the room, stopping when you see me frantically looking for a Benadryl. “Sherlock, you took one of Anderson’s pills, didn’t you?”

“No,” I lie.

You cross the room and take my chin between your hands. “Don’t lie to me, Sherlock. Did you take a pill?”

I don’t answer.

“God above, Sherlock, we have responsibilities. We have a baby and Anderson to look after. Your last blood panel revealed that your kidneys and liver are under a great deal of strain from your past abuses. I can’t lose you again. Why do you feel the desire to hurt yourself? You need therapy.”

I look up at you. “Well, it hasn’t done you any good.”

You look at me. “Oh, yes it has. I haven’t beaten you to a jelly yet, have I?”

I shrug. “Only when I’ve asked you to.”

You look down at the ground. “Sherlock, I’m not going to be your punisher. You need help.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I know you’re always sorry after. I’ll be in the next room if you need me.”

“John, please don’t leave me.”

You stop at the door, your back is towards me, your shoulders are tense. “Sleep it off, Sherlock. We’ll talk about this later.”

_I am starting to panic._ “You aren’t going to move out, are you?”

A silence fills the room. It terrifies me. “No, but we are going to have to make some ground rules. I casually brought up our proposal to Anderson in hospital. He is considering it, but you’ve got to get it together. There is too much at stake here. Goodnight, Sherlock and I…love you.”

I curl up in a ball. “I love you too and John?”

“Yes?”

“Leave the door open a crack, will you?”

You walk over and kiss my forehead. “Of course.”

When you leave, I curl my knees to my chest, comforted by the fact that I can hear you puttering around the flat with Mrs. Hudson. I fall asleep to the sound of your muted voices.


	31. Value

I wake up, feeling as if someone has stuffed a wad of cotton in my mouth. Yawning, I make my way downstairs where I hear you and Mrs. Hudson talking.

“I have to take Alice for an appointment. I’m giving you Anderson’s pain pills. Whatever you do don’t let them out of your sight. He took one last night. I’m afraid this whole situation has taken a toll on him.”

“Oh, John what are we going to do?”

John patted her shoulder. “Take care of them the best way we know how.”

I flatten myself against the wall when you walk by. Once you have left I breeze into the kitchen. “Good morning, Mrs. Hudson, how are you?”

She purses her lips. “Fine, but Sherlock you’ve got to behave. John, has a lot riding on his shoulders without you acting up.”

I sigh. “I know. It would help if a nice juicy case would come our way.”

“Sherlock, perhaps you should give it a rest until things settle down.”

“My brain is always on overdrive. If I rest, I’ll die. You know I am at my best when I am working.”

Mrs. Hudson puts her arms around me. “Sherlock, you have more people that love and care for you more than most. Don’t take advantage of it. John is taking Alice to an appointment, then he is off to interview nannies.”

I frown. “Why does Alice need a nanny?”

“Sherlock, you don’t honestly expect to take her on cases, do you?”

My fingers dance over the rim of the teacup that sits in front of me. “No, I suppose not.”

Mrs. Hudson smiles at me. “Now, finish your tea and go up and keep Anderson company.”

I walk down the hall and tap on Anderson’s door. “Come in,” he calls out.

He is sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. “Are you alright?” I ask.

He looks up at me and smiles. “No, but I will be.”

“Are you in pain?”

“Constantly, but it will pass.”

I’m not sure what to say so I begin to pace. “Is there anything I can get you?”

Anderson smirks. “You just want to get at my pain pills again.”

I chuckle. “Maybe. Do you want to smoke some weed?”

“That sounds wonderful, but we need to include John.”

I sigh, then I begin to fidget. “I don’t think he’ll go for it, but we can ask.”

“Sherlock, why are you nervous?”

I stop and look at him. “I’m not nervous.”

“Yes, you are.”

I sit next to him. “John, said he talked to you about…about.”

“About all of us being in a relationship together?”

I look down at my hands. They are trembling. “Yes.”

Anderson leans back. “I’m open to it. How do you feel about it?”

I study my hands as if they are foreign objects. “I don’t know.”

“It doesn’t turn you on?”

My groin leaps to attention and I want to yell at it. “No, it definitely turns me on. The physical combinations of us being together is intriguing.”

Anderson raises an eyebrow. “Just intriguing?”

I grin. “Okay, it sounds fucking hot, watching and being watched. God…”

“Well, I guess we’ll have to see what happens.”

“Anderson, why did you do what you did?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

Anderson pulls open his robe, showing me his wound in the full light. I grimace. It’s dreadful. “I wanted to save you, but there was something else too. I wanted to bleed out in your arms. I wanted you to be the last face I saw, the last voice I heard.”

I get up. I’m angry. “I’m not worth it.”

“Yes, Sherlock you are. When you start to put a value on your own life, then you can begin to value others.”

“Rubbish,” I say, then spring off the bed. “I’ll send up Mrs. Hudson to give you a snack.”

“I want you to give it to me.”

My face flushes. “I bet you do.” I then leave the room to forage for something to eat. A few minutes later, Mrs. Hudson finds me looking in the kitchen cupboards.

“Sherlock, what are you up to?”

“Anderson wants a snack and I think he is in a lot of pain. Is it time for one of his pills?”

Her eyes narrow. “No, it isn’t and I know what you’re up to.”

I ignore her, continuing to look through the cupboards.

“Sherlock, here let me help you. I swear you would starve to death if it weren’t for John and I. I’ll fix a pot of peppermint tea, that should soothe his stomach and I’ll send up some sandwiches.”

I nod, then stop. “Make sure that they aren’t the cucumber ones. The doctor said no seeds or anything that could get stuck in his colon.”

“Sherlock, you do care. You listened to the doctor’s orders.”

I shrug. “I don’t want his colon bursting. It would make an awful mess.”

“Sherlock, stop it. I know you care.”

I don’t answer her. Caring scares me. A few minutes later and the tea and sandwiches are complete.

“Do you want me to take them up?”

I shake my head. “No, I’ll do it.” I then navigate the stairs with ease, setting the tray down by the side of the bed.

“Are you hungry?” I ask.

Anderson’s face is pale. “I’m tired, Sherlock. Just sit with me a little while.”

I sit next to him, feeling his forehead. He is warm. “It feels like you’re running a fever.”

He looks up at me with shinny eyes. “Tell me about a case, Sherlock.”

“Fine, but first you have to drink some tea.”

His hands shake when he takes the cup from me. I steady them so he can swallow. He takes a few sips, then looks at me, resting his head against my shoulder. “Talk to me, Sherlock.”

I stroke the side of his face. “One case that stands out in my mind is the case of the dismembered barrister.”

“That was the case I first met you.”

“Yes, and I was terribly cruel to you.”

“Yes, you were.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know you are, Sherlock. Now talk to me while I fall asleep.”

I keep talking to him in a calm voice, yet I am uneasy, something doesn’t feel right.

When you come through the door I breathe a sigh of relief. “John, I think that Anderson is running a fever.” He hands Alice to Mrs. Hudson, and goes to check on Anderson.

I enter the room to find you taking his pulse. “We’ve got to call an ambulance. His pulse is thin and rapid.”

“I kept bathing his forehead in cool cloths.”

You look at me. “That’s good, Sherlock.”

“But it wasn’t enough.”

You look up at me, then call an ambulance. “You did good, Sherlock. He’s going to be fine.”

I want to shrink within myself. This is all my fault.


	32. Too Exqusite

Anderson is back home again. He’s had the temporary bag removed and his infection is under control, but he is so thin. He lays back on the bed watching me while I hold Alice. You watch over him, taking his vitals and such. I stare while you bend over and imagine you going down on him. _God that would be such a delight to see._ I clear my throat. “John, come and get Alice. I have to go to the bathroom.”

You look at me and smile, not knowing the reason I must get out of the room. _The reason I must rush out of the room? Well, it’s because I’m carrying a boner the size of Alice’s leg._ You take Alice and I make a mad dash for the bathroom.

Once inside I wank one off, muffling my groans in a towel. I then wash up and open the door. You are standing there with that look on your face.

“Enjoy yourself?”

I grimace. “Shut up.”

You laugh, then your expression sobers. “I’m proud of you, Sherlock. You’ve shown a great deal of restraint through all this.” I nod, then move past you. “Sherlock, wait a minute.” I pause. “I think we should get Anderson out of the house. I know he’ll be back to work in a couple of weeks, but he seems depressed.”

My heart starts to pound. _A date with Anderson and John? Where should we go?_ A dozen sex clubs pop into my mind, my eyes glaze over. You see right through me. “Um, Sherlock, we need to go somewhere quiet, conservative with mild food.”

I sigh, rolling my eyes. “Fine, but we may as well take Alice along for all the fun this is going to be.”

We settle on a small place around the corner. The food choices are extensive and I watch you and Anderson over the top of my menu.

“What are you having?” Anderson asks you.

You smile and my heart skips a beat. “I’m having the vegetarian platter.”

Anderson nods. “So, do you eat chicken and fish?”

You shake your head. “Nope.”

“So, you don’t eat meat?”

I cough, choking on my tea and you both laugh. Then you lick your lips. “I’ve been known to eat certain types of meat if there are no animals harmed in the process.”

Anderson smiles. “Hmm, that sounds interesting, then he plucks the lemon out of his water and sucks on it.”

_Shit, I can’t breathe. What are these two doing to me?_

The atmosphere becomes tinged with a lustful, flirtatious energy and my face heats up. Our waiter shows up just in time. With relief, I order. The meal takes forever and I pick at my food when it arrives.

“Sherlock, are you alright? You’ve hardly touched your food.” You give me a half smile.

I scowl. “Let’s just get home. I tired.”

The cab ride home is quiet and I don’t wait for it to come to a complete stop before I jump out and run up the stairs to the bathroom, where I slam the door shut and take a cold shower. The cool water invigorates my mind and squelches my libido to a point where I feel sane again. _We’ve got to get a case or I’m going to go crazy._

I walk down the stairs and freeze at the sight before me. Anderson and you are making out. You see me out of the corner of your eye, then tilt your head so that I can get a better look at the tongue action going on. I take a step forward, then the room tilts around me.

I open my eyes and I am lying in your arms, while Anderson is stroking my forehead. “He’s too high strung. Sherlock, is this too soon?”

I look into your eyes. “No,” I whisper.

You smile. “Alright, then let’s continue this in the bedroom.”

“What about Alice?” I ask.

“She’s with the nanny and when they get back they are going straight to the nursery.”

My feet move forward like I am dreaming. Once we get to our room, you look over at Anderson. “Well, I guess we know who’s getting the royal treatment?”

“Who?” I ask.

You grin. “Hmm, what has happened to Sherlock’s powers of deduction?”

Anderson steps forward. “Sherlock, you got the shower, so you’ll be the one.”

I close my eyes letting them lead me to the bed. My breath comes out shallow and fast when they remove my robe, then my pants. I shiver under the covers while I watch them both undress. Then like two seductive cherubim they approach me, each flanking a side like I’m the ark of the covenant.

“What are you thinking?” you whisper.

“The ark of the covenant.”

You laugh. “Sherlock, we’ve got to work on your foreplay vocabulary. The ark of the covenant, really?”

“It was a picture that popped into my head. You two are like angels.”

“Then let us worship and feast on you,” Anderson says in between the kisses he reigns on my neck.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Sherlock, let us know if there’s something you don’t like, okay?”

I look into your eyes and nod.

You both work your way down my body. Anderson takes your lead and I find myself whimpering like a helpless animal caught in a trap. I reach down between my legs. You move my hand away. “I want you to last, so no touching.”

Anderson sighs in pleasure while he tastes me, then he stops when you move my legs apart. The rimming begins. I pull up on the head board, unable to bear the feel of both of your tongues inside me. The pleasure is too much. You both give me no mercy, while you flick around in my warm cavern like a nest of vipers. My hips attempt to shoot off the bed and my lower back stiffens.

“I can’t hold on much longer,” I gasp.

You run over and grab a condom, while Anderson begins to give me a hurried blow job. When I feel you push inside me, I lose it. You get a couple of thrusts in, just before I blow my load in Anderson’s mouth. He swallows it down, then rolls back, watching you fuck me until you are spent. After you slide out, I look up at the ceiling, the room spins around me. I don’t know when or how Anderson got off. I just know that you are both holding me close. My body shakes from a delayed adrenaline reaction. I feel as if I am going to float away, but you both steady me whispering words of love and encouragement. The moment is exquisite, too exquisite and I am afraid of its power.


	33. The Promise

I awake, feeling like Scarlett O’Hara after Rhett took her up the stairs. Anderson throws off the covers, smiling when he looks down and sees the morning wood I am sporting. “Nice,” he says, then begins to work at dispatching it.

You walk into the room, towel drying your hair. “Oh, Jesus, I just got a shower. Now I will have to get another.”

I watch while you go over to the nightstand, grab a condom, lube Anderson up, instructing him to get on all fours. He stops what he’s doing and I give you a menacing look. You laugh. “Anderson, don’t stop in the middle or Sherlock gets quite angry.” I smile when Anderson goes back to work, wondering if I should be worried about his teeth biting me while you fuck him. The room begins to fill with groans and the scent of sex. It is glorious, like a perfect Mozart Sonata or the thrilling climax of a grueling case—perfection.

After I release, and Anderson swallows my load with his usual relish, I slide between his legs, finishing him off with the tip of my tongue, his come in my mouth a lovely pre-tea snack. Then like a choregraphed dance, you slide out of Anderson, I slide to the floor, then you and Anderson pull me back onto the bed. Like dogs we roll around in our own scents, while I sniff and taste you both.

“Don’t mind him,” you say, “he loves the taste of recycled come.”

“Jesus, he is disgusting and wonderful,” Anderson says while he runs his fingers through my hair. John looks on, smiling at us with an affectionate grin. A knock at the door startles us into action. You grab your stripped robe, Anderson looks around, he has no robe, so he dives under the covers. I slip my gown on, posing like Botticelli’s Venus, then say, “Come in.”

You look murderous and Anderson blushes when Mrs. Hudson opens the door. “Boys, I thought you might like some…tea.” Her voice trails off and she wrinkles her nose. “Oh Sherlock, what have you done now?”

I raise up. “In case you haven’t noticed there are two other people in the room. How come everyone always blames me when something untoward occurs?”

You scratch the side of your face. “That’s because it’s usually you that causes all the trouble.” Then you take a step towards Mrs. Hudson. “Look I’m sorry you had to find out this way, but we aren’t just fooling around. We are all in a relationship with each other.”

She sets down the tea tray and smiles. “That’s nice, I’m happy for the three of you but please open a window and clean up in here. It smells a bit musky.” Then she smiles again and leaves.

When the door shuts, I start to laugh. “Good old Mrs. Hudson, nothing shocks her, does it?”

You raise your eyebrows, rubbing the back of your neck. “Apparently not.”

I would love a good soak in the tub, but I know that Anderson can’t soak in the water just yet. _His wound, it still looks so terrible. Poor Anderson. Why would he kill himself for me? I don’t understand._

Anderson looks at me and smiles. I shudder. _Did he just read my mind?_

You approach us, putting a hand on each of our shoulders. “It would be nice if he could all get a bath together.”

I nod. “I must tell Mrs. Hudson we need a bigger tub. In the meantime, Anderson will get his shower first, I will take a bath and John, you can bundle up our sheets for the laundry. Oh, and empty the trash bin as well. I’m sure all the used condoms are plastered to the sides by now.”

You laugh. “Since when are you the den mother?”

I look back at you and sigh. “I am the most analytical, therefore my suggestions will be the ones we will take.” Then without another word I head off to the bathroom. My bathing ritual is quite extensive and I begin by disrobing, then I turn on the water, letting it run until the temperature is hot. You and Mrs. Hudson always complain I’m a terrible water waster, but I don’t care. I can’t abide tepid bath water. After I am satisfied that I will be as red as a lobster when I submerge, I pour in a special blend of bath oil, then I lower myself in an inch at a time until my body adjusts to the heat. Once in I lean back and close my eyes. I must have dozed off. When someone knocks at the door I jump. “Come in.”

Anderson opens the door and is met with a cloud of steam. He lets some of it dissipate, then comes into the room. I grab a sponge, then attempt to wash my back. “Here let me get that.” Chill bumps raise on my arms when the warm water runs down my sides. The only sound in the room is the faint sound of the water running in the pipes from John’s shower and the splashing Anderson makes while he washes me. He pauses over my shoulder blades. “Sherlock, the scars…what are they from?”

I want to ignore him, but I don’t. “I was beaten and…raped in an Eastern European Prison.”

Anderson kneels on the ground, heedless of the wet bath mat beneath. “Sherlock, I’m so sorry. Let’s make them pay. I will torture them one by one.”

I flick some water at him, attempting to lighten the blow I have just given him. “Stop, you’re going to make me hard and they’re all dead anyway.”

“You killed them?”

“Nope, Mycroft had them waterboarded, then tossed into the woods for the wolves to eat.”

He laughs then begins to wash my arms, kissing the scars I have inflicted upon myself. “Sherlock, promise me you won’t do this to yourself anymore.”

I pull my arms away, covering my body when a feeling of shame overwhelms me. “I never make promises.” Then I look into his pale blue eyes. “Why didn’t you wash your hair?”

He stands up, then smiles that heartrending smile of his. “It was too painful to bend my head back. I don’t know it just hurt.”

I study him. “It didn’t hurt to bend your head last night.” Then I look at him again. “Hand me a towel, then my robe and the shampoo and I will wash your hair in the kitchen.”

He does as I ask, but looks skeptical when I emerge from the tub, leading him to the kitchen. I make sure the temperature of the water is just right, then I guide his head under the flowing water, letting him back into me for balance. He hums in pleasure when I massage the shampoo into his fine hair. It is a sensuous experience and I am surprised to find that I am enjoying it as much as he.  When we are through, I wrap his hair in a towel, guiding him to a chair. He towel dries his hair while I watch.

“What’s going on here?”

I turn to see you in the doorway, holding baby Alice. She looks adorable in a little white dress. It’s dotted with red hearts and I smile. You are dressed in black trousers and a red shirt. I frown, attempting to recall why you are both dressed up. You laugh. “It’s Valentine’s Day, Sherlock and we are all going out for a fine meal.”

My eyes brighten. “I know of a sex performance club that…”

You point to Alice and I purse my lips. “Of course, I don’t suppose it would be proper.”

Anderson and I slip upstairs to get dressed. I wear my purple shirt of sex and Anderson opts for a classic white shirt, and black trousers.

Mrs. Hudson inspects us before we leave. “You boys look so marvelous, have a good time.”

I smile. “We will.”

“And call if you’re going to be late, or I’ll worry.”

I smile. “Don’t worry, I will take good care of them. I promise.” Then we all head for the door and I shiver, unable to shake the black feeling that hovers over me.


	34. London Bridges

Love comes in all different shapes and sizes and when I look at you, Anderson and Alice, I realize how fortunate I am to be the recipient of such devotion. A text pings on my phone. I should ignore it, but my obsessive nature doesn’t allow me to. I read the text, then re-read it again. “John, Anderson, we have to leave now.”

You look at me. “I know you’re bored, but quit being so cryptic. Valentine’s Day only comes once a year. Try to enjoy it.”

I grasp your arm. “John, get up, and take Alice and Anderson out of here. Try to get a cab out of the city.” A barrage of police cars rushes past the window, too many. “John, mass panic is about to ensue. Before the news hits, you must leave, now.”

Your expression sobers. “Oh, Jesus, Sherlock, what’s going on?”

I pull you and Anderson close. “Scotland Yard is under attack. There’s been a credible threat on the entire city.  Now, get up and get out.”

“What about you?” you whisper.

I look at you, perhaps for the last time. “I love you. All three of you. Go back to Baker Street if you can’t get out of the city. Tell Mrs. Hudson, London Bridges.”

You take my hand. “Why can’t you come with us?”

Tears fill my eyes. “I just can’t. Now go and don’t worry I will find you.” More police cars rush past the window. “Go, now hurry.”

You nod, then like a good soldier you, Alice, and Anderson are gone—safe. I hear a low rumble, it makes the windows tremble. People look around in confusion. I get up making my way towards the door. I want to scream at them all to run, but I have a mission and all missions have casualties. I open the door, throwing myself to the ground when an explosion rocks the café where we all sat peaceful and carefree just a few moments before. Hands pick me up, moving me to safety. Though I can’t feel pain, I know I am injured. Surprise makes my heart rate spike, when I realize I am in Mycroft’s arms. I’m not surprised because he is carrying me. I’m surprised because his facial expressions are full of fear. He lays me in the back of a vehicle, then unbuttons my coat and rips open my shirt. A voice I don’t recognize says, “The glass shard missed a main artery. Just keep applying pressure, until I can stitch him up.”

I look up at Mycroft and take his hand. “Mycroft, make sure they’re safe if I should….”

“Sherlock, quit being so dramatic, you’re going to be fine.”

“Okay, I’m ready to stich him up now. Sorry, I don’t have any deadener, mate.”

Mycroft smiles. “Don’t worry, he’s used to needles.”

I look up at him with a witty retort on my lips, then stop. He is wearing black tactical gear and his hair is messed up. He looks lost and his vulnerability makes him look younger. Though he tells the man who is stitching me up to not be gentle, due to the fact, that my skin is tough like a housecat’s, he looks down at me in concern, and I know without a shadow of a doubt that my loss would devastate him. It shocks me, yet confuses me at the same time, considering how many times he has put my life at risk. _Mycroft, could it be that you do care?_

The vehicle hits a bump, and our hands are knocked apart. When I sit up I notice we are in a tactical unit tank. Then I think of Scotland Yard, wondering if Lestrade is okay. We reach our destination and are hustled inside an underground base. I look over at Mycroft. “I get the end of the world is upon us, but why am I here?”

Mycroft smiles. “Just wait for the briefing.”

A man steps up to the front of the room and everyone silences. “At approximately 8:21 this evening Scotland Yard was bombed along with other buildings in the area. So, far no terrorist group has claimed responsibility. This image was transmitted to national security just before the bomb hit as well as the words ‘undeciphered’.” The man pauses, then projects an image on the screen in front of us.

“What the bloody hell is that?” A voice asks.

I smile and say, “A puzzle.”

Mycroft gives him a gentle push. “Time to shine, little brother.”

No one comments on my blood spattered torn shirt when I step to the front, pacing while I look at the picture. Then I stop. Chill bumps race up and down my arms. _It feels almost as good as multiple orgasms._ “It’s a puzzle within a puzzle.”

“Explain,” a clipped voice demands.

“The image you see before us is a difficult jigsaw puzzle, each piece has to be obtained and put together one at a time. Google the image and this will come up as one of the most difficult jigsaw puzzles ever invented; however, the bomber also sent the word, ‘undeciphered,’ which indicates there is more to the puzzle than just the image, thus supporting my conclusion of a hidden cypher or cryptogram hidden within its depths.”

“Like a complex, ‘where’s Waldo.’”

I look over at the speaker in annoyance. “Your attempt at an analogy is sadly lacking. You’re an idiot, don’t speak again. You’ll lower the I.Q. of the whole country.” Then I think of Anderson, you and Alice and my concertation wavers.   _Why have I wasted so much time, putting down others? Anderson, once a source of derision is now one of my beloved partners. It hurts to feel. Why did I let you, John, into my heart? But then what would life have been without you? I would have been nothing more than a machine, an enigma, an unsolved puzzle._ I clear my throat. “I need a quiet place to think and some tea.” Then I step down from the platform and make my way to Mycroft, where I whisper in his ear. “I need you to find out if John, Anderson and Alice are safe.”

“Sherlock, the country is under attack. How can I possibly…”

I grasp him by the shirt front. “Do it, or London will fall.”


	35. Get Me Some

I sit in a cold sterile room, the walls are grey cement, the table's chrome, it is an emergency hide out shelter, disused until today. Sniffing the air, I feel as if I can smell wet cement, cold, hard unyielding. Mycroft comes in with my tea, and the scent of boiling water and tea bag assails my nostrils. I grimace. “It’s not Twinings Earl Grey, it’s Twinings Lady Grey Tea.”

“And your point is, Brother mine?”

“If I’m going to die, I want Earl Grey.”

“Just drink the damn tea.”

I sigh. “Fine.” Then I study the image of the puzzle again, letting its multi-colored design propel me into another dimension—my mind palace. I reach for the tea, not noticing when it burns my lips. The sting dissipates, leaving first a numbness, then a tingling sensation. I ignore it, allowing all sensations to divert to my brain, letting each synapse fire in rapid succession. Colors reflect back at me, purple, blue, yellow, green and an amalgamation of all shades of the visible spectrum—white. _Oh, for a 7% solution to clarify my thinking processes. Would Mycroft get me some? No, probably not, but at least a cigarette, surely._ “Mycroft, are you there?” I call out to the empty room.

A short time later and he appears. “Yes, what is it?”

“I need something to clarify my thinking. Get me some.”

He shakes his head. “Absolutely, not.”

“Get me a cigarette then and no low tar.”

He sighs, then turns to leave. I stop him. “Mycroft, I need my phone. I need to know if they’re okay.”

“I doubt you’ll get reception down here.”

“Then get me a land line. Get me a goddamn carrier pigeon if you must, just let me know if they’re okay. I can’t concentrate.”

His eyes narrow. “See, I told you that caring is not an advantage and besides carrier pigeons are extinct.”

I round on him. “Don’t cock this up, Mycroft, get me what I need, or you can kiss your ass and everyone else’s good-bye.”

He looks at me says nothing, then leaves. A few moments later, he comes back with a rotary phone, a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He plugs the phone into an outlet along the wall, then steps back. “Now, get to work.”

“Rotary?” I ask.

“Of course, we both know that anything digital can be compromised.”

I light a cigarette. “Well, I guess sometimes old things are the best.” I then look him up and down. “Well, some things at any rate.”

He grinds his teeth. I can hear it above the buzz of the fluorescent lights. “Make your call and get to work, Brother mine. London, and perhaps all of the world needs you.”

I close my eyes referencing my mind palace for Mrs. Hudson’s land line number. My hands shake when I dial the number. It rings, and rings and rings, causing my heart rate to spike. Between the fear, caffeine and the nicotine, I am sure to have a heart attack. Nothing, then I hear Mrs. Hudson’s voice.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Hudson, it’s me. Is everyone okay?”

“Oh, Sherlock, what’s happening?”

“I don’t have time to explain. Are John, Anderson and the baby okay?”

“Yes, I let you talk to him.”

I wait, my pulse pounding, waiting to hear your voice.

“Sherlock?”

“John, are you okay?”

“Yes, where are you?”

“I can’t say. Are you down in the shelter?”

“Yes, how come you never told me about this place? It’s huge and has enough supplies to last for months, perhaps years. You and Mrs. Hudson are full of surprises. When are you coming home?”

I pause, listening to your breath, you are breathing from your mouth. I love the sound of it, the way it sucks in with a slight whistle, then exhales in a short puff. “John, I’m not coming home. I have work to do.”

“No, that’s unacceptable. Tell me where you are and I’ll find you.”

I hear a low rumble, then a few moments later a slight vibration shakes the room. “John, are you okay?”

“Yes, but what the hell was that?”

I can hear Alice crying in the background. “John, you have a child and I need you to keep Anderson and Mrs. Hudson safe.”

You muffle the receiver, then come back on. “Sherlock…I…can’t lose you.”

“John, you are a soldier and I know you can do this. Keep Anderson, Alice and Mrs. Hudson safe and I will find you. Now put Anderson on and John I love you.”

I hear a slight tremor in your voice when you answer me. “I love you too.”

There is a slight pause, then I hear Anderson. “Anderson, how are things?”

“We’re all fine, Sherlock, just concentrate on the task at hand.”

“Anderson, I need you to keep John, Alice and Mrs. Hudson safe, don’t let John try to be a hero and Anderson I love you and I’m so sorry for all my harsh words and…”

“Sherlock, you’ll be embarrassed later, stop, it’s okay and I love you too.”

I feel tears welling up in my eyes. “Please put Mrs. Hudson on.”

Another pause. “Sherlock, oh Sherlock…”

“Mrs. Hudson, promise me you’ll keep them safe. Promise me.”

“I promise, Sherlock, I will. Come back to us. I love you.”

“I love you too, Mrs. Hudson, be safe.” Then I hang up and take the cigarette, placing it between my lips, I inhale, enjoying the mouth hit. I close my eyes, the world fades around me, the only thing I see is the puzzle, its colors swirl around, mocking me. _You will not beat me. Where is the cipher? Is it a mathematical formula hidden within its depths? Does each squiggle have a meaning? Does each color have a number? Is it the pieces of the puzzle itself?_ My mind attacks each possibility, despairing when I prove each theory wrong.I lean forward, becoming lost within its depths.

“Sherlock? Sherlock?” a voice calls.

I open my eyes, giving Mycroft a malevolent stare. “What is it? How to do you expect me to get anything done with you constantly hovering over me?”

“You’ve been in here for hours. I brought you some chips.”

I look up at him. “I need help. I need some, you can supervise.”

“Sherlock, …”

“You’ve put me in danger before and it hasn’t bothered you. Now give me your phone so I can type out a list. Give it to me.”

He hands over his phone, I pull up the notes section, and type up a list, then hand it back to him. He takes it, covers his face with one hand, then looks back at me. “I’ll get you what you need because we are in crisis, but you are wrong about one thing.”

“I’m seldom wrong. What are you talking about?”

“It’s bothered me every time I’ve had to put you in danger, Sherlock.”

I look up at him, then away. “Just get me what I need.”  



	36. Frequencies

I observe Molly when she comes into the room. Her hair hangs in tendrils around her face, making her appear like an anime character gone wrong—her eyes too kind and round. She looks fearful and sad.

“Molly, you don’t have to do this. We can get another Doctor.”

“It’s alright, Sherlock, I was already here.”

I frown. “I’m glad you’re here. Who brought you in?”

“I don’t know. A tactical unit came and got me.”

I smile. _Could it be that Mycroft cares about the welfare of the people that matter most to me?_ I take her hand and bring it to my lips.

“Sherlock don’t, not today, not now. I’m not up to being teased.”

“Molly, I’m sorry I can’t give you more.”

She looks down at me, rubbing her hand across my cheek. “It’s alright, Sherlock.”

“Molly, I do love you and your small, inadequate breasts fascinate me. I wouldn’t mind looking at them, only for scientific purposes of course.”

She laughs. “Sherlock, stop.”

“I could fondle them, causing your nipples to harden, but then I wouldn’t be much good to you. Although John swears he came make a woman…”

She swats my arm. “Stop now.”

I grin, not ready to see sadness mar her delicate features again. “Oh, so that’s how it is? You know Irene showed me a trick or two with the riding crop. You could use it on me, while I…”

She puts a finger to my lips. “Don’t say it.”

My smile fades, making my facial muscles relax into their normal state of disuse. I roll up my sleeve. “It’s time, Molly.”

She nods, then turn towards a metal tray where several vials and a syringe gleam, waiting to be used. I watch her, while she punctures each rubber seal with the tip of a needle. My mouth waters in anticipation. She finds a vein, then uses an alcohol swab to clean the area. “You know I get hard every time I feel the sting of the needle. So, it’ll be like we’re having sex.” I then smile at her, focusing my green eyes on her. “You’re beautiful,” I whisper, “and maybe when this is all over we can take a nap together, while I think of the perfect plan to find you someone wonderful. Someone who can love you like you deserve.”

She bites her lower lip. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, I’m ready to save the world.” Then I close my eyes, anticipating the feel of metal into flesh. _Ahh, it stings so good. I feel relaxed and I want to rub one out, but poor Molly would probably faint. Molly, my dearest one…_ She fades into the background. The walls of my mind palace open, allowing me entrance into their hellish, yet perfect symmetry of knowledge. Everything I’ve ever seen or heard is in here somewhere. I pull up the picture of the puzzle, terrified and entranced by its infinite depths.

***

**The Mind Palace Trip**

_Why am I hearing the song Angel Baby? I smile, imagining you dearest John, in my arms. The way you feel is sublime, but the crooning voice of Rosie and The Originals makes me want to cry. Focus, damn it. My throat hurts, when I banish the memory in favor of the puzzle. I am floating. The colors in the puzzle seem larger than life and I surrender to their power. What mysteries do they hold? What does it all mean? Where is the cipher? One color after another wrap themselves around my body. They look like colored caterpillars—deadly and beautiful._

_Each color has a purpose but what is it? Think, Sherlock, think. I should have had Molly give me a bit more._

Yellow

| 

~ 590–560 nm Wavelength Frequency

| 

~ 510–540 THz Frequency Interval  
  
---|---|---  
  
I pull up each of the colors in my mind to determine their wavelength frequencies and frequency intervals. _The speed of light, remains constant, as frequency goes up, wavelength must go down. Therefore, violet has the highest frequency and the shortest wavelength of the visible colors of light. And red has the lowest frequency and the longest wavelength of the visible colors of light. Of course, that’s it. He is going to use certain frequencies to destroy places in London. But where is his next target and why?_ I access information about resonance and the natural frequency of buildings and bridges. _The natural frequencies of vibration of a building depend on its mass and its stiffness. The natural frequency for each mode of vibration follows the rule f=natural frequency in Hertz. Harmonic frequency. That’s it._ I open my eyes.

“Mycroft, get in here.”

A few moments later, he arrives. “Yes, what is it?”

I stare at my reflection in the glass behind him, ignoring the large dragon I see in its depths. I am terrified.

“Oh, for god’s sake, Sherlock, what is it?”

“A dragon,” I whisper.

“You’re still high.”

“No, I know his next target. I just don’t know why. Why?”

“What is the target, Sherlock? Focus.”

“The Millennial Bridge. It’s the Millennial Bridge. Get me a laptop with scientific management software on it.”

“Here, this should meet your needs.”

I power it up, grimace at the software icon, then roll my eyes. “They couldn’t do better than this?”

“Just show me your calculations.”

I type in quick, rapid fire motions. My coordination is off. A dubious effect of the drug that flows within my veins. Sweat pours down the back of my neck. It rolls down my back, tracing its path down my spine, until it rests in the hollow between my ass checks. I want to stand up and itch, but I don’t dare. The dragon is watching me, watching us all, waiting to pounce. I see blood dripping from its jaws, but it wants more. It wants me. It wants John, Anderson, Alice and everyone I’ve ever cared for. I look into its golden eyes. _You won’t get them. I will take us both down to hell before I let you win._ Then I close my eyes, hoping that when I open them it will be gone. I know it won’t. It lives within the confines of my mind palace. It waits to gorge on my flesh, while it drowns itself in my blood, slacking its lust when the smell of my bodily essences fills its nostrils.


	37. The Syringe

The terror is over. He has been caught. I look at the miscreant, while he is being led away. His eyes bore into mine. I stand before him and smile. “It’s good to be recognized, isn’t it?”

He looks back at me and his shoulders sag. I can tell he is grateful. “Yes, Mister Holmes, it is,” he whispers.

Mycroft claps a hand on my shoulder. “Well, brother mine, it seems as if you’ve saved us all once again.”

I nod, then look past him at the two-way glass that blankets a portion of the room. I can still see the dragon in its depths. “Yes, I’ve saved everyone, well almost everyone.” Before he has a chance to question me, I leave, anxious to be above ground once more. _I’ve been buried long enough._

I blink my eyes, then shield them from the sunlight. Molly comes to my side. “Sherlock, are you alright? Let me take your pulse.”

I look down at her. She is quite lovely. The skin on my chest feels tight. I want to itch the stitches that hold my torn flesh together. In the distance, I see the tactical officer that sewed me up. He is almost as tall as I, dark hair, blue eyes, porcelain skin—beautiful. I motion him over to us. He makes his way through the rubble and I study him. He’s around 36 years old and has a golden retriever judging from the golden hairs on his pant legs. He is strong, yet has a soft spot. I remember the way he winced when he stitched me up without anything to deaden my pain. He is good and kind. I smile. “I wanted to thank you for stitching me up.”

 I hold out my hand. He grasps it, then I ask for his name. “It’s Dan”

“Dan, I want you to meet a friend of mine.” I gesture towards Molly. “This is Molly, she’s a …. Well, it doesn’t really matter what she does. She’s quite attractive, isn’t she?”

“Sherlock, stop,” Molly says, giving me a horrified look.

Dan smiles. “That’s alright. You really are quite attractive. Now may not be the time, but in my business a person learns not to waste time. Molly, would you like to go out for a cup of tea sometime?”

Molly blushes. “Yes, I think I’d like that.”

I sigh, my work is done. They both make small talk, which seems ironic, considering that we are standing in the middle of a crime scene—bombed out Scotland Yard. In the distance, I see Lestrade making his way towards us. “Lestrade, I’m glad you made it through.”

He walks towards me, then gives me a hug. My chest impacts against his and the world sways. I am falling. “Someone get an EMT over here now.” I close my eyes and the dragon rests.

***

I open my eyes and look up. You, dearest John, are standing above me. I smile. You smile back. A nurse and doctor breeze into the room, but you and I are oblivious to their presence. You tear your attention away from me to listen to them. Anderson steps forward beyond the fray of white coats and takes my hand. “God, Sherlock, we’ve missed you. You gave us quite a fright.”

I entwine my fingers through his. “Get used to it, Anderson.”

He laughs and his features brighten. _My Anderson—our Anderson._

You come over and rub Anderson’s back, then kiss me on the forehead. “The doctor says you are recovering nicely and should be able to go home in the next couple of days.”

I smile. _Home to Baker Street._

***

Mrs. Hudson fusses over me like a mother hen. “Here, I got your favorite biscuits. Have a few more, you’re so thin, Sherlock.”

You come in carrying baby Alice, with Anderson on your heels. You both look as sexy as fuck. “John, I am feeling much better. Do you think the nanny could give you a day off? I love Alice but I, we need some alone time.”

Alice whines and I hold out my arms to take her. When she is in my grasp, I hold her close. “You know I love you baby, Alice, but your daddies need some alone time, so that we can play grown-up games.” She gurgles, then smiles. I stroke her soft cheek, marveling at how perfect she is. I play with her until her body grows heavy and her eyes close. Her solid warmth makes me relax and before I know it my eyes flutter shut as well.

The last thing I hear is your laughter. “Baby Alice, always puts him to sleep. We’ll have to remember that when he gets his bouts of insomnia. God knows, riding him around in a cab doesn’t work.”

Mrs. Hudson laughs. “Neither does warm milk.”

Anderson chimes in as well. “A good shagging does through.”

“Phillip, not in front of the b-a-b-y.” Mrs. Hudson chides. They laugh together and I take comfort in the sounds of their muted conversation. Their words hover around me, until REM takes me to its dark underworld.

***

The Suite from Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet blares through the flat. I lay on my back, my legs spread open, while you both feast on my naked body. I am your sacrifice, burnt on the pyre of your warm lips and spearing tongues. My aural senses are gorged with the smacking sounds of flesh against flesh—licking and swallowing me whole. I raise my hips up to meet my oral benefactors, showering them with my release.

You dearest John, plunge your swollen cock into me, while Anderson moans, watching while my body adjusts to your girth. He says, “You two are so fucking hot.”

I want to tell Anderson that he is stating the obvious, but am too far gone to mumble anything but gibberish.  

After we are spent, we lay in each other’s arms, not like participants from a debauched orgy, but as lovers, worshiping each other’s uniqueness. Like snowflakes we are all three different. We enhance each other. I look over at the corner of the room. The dragon is there—waiting. I smile, it won’t win, not with You and Anderson by my side. _Someday it will devour me with fangs that drip with the marrow of my soul, mad with power fueled by boredom and despair, but not today. Today the syringe has relinquished its control._


End file.
